


Crossing Paths

by Fyre



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Backstory, Canon Compliant, Crowley and Aziraphale through the Ages, Friendship, Friendship/Love, History, Missing Scene, The Arrangement (Good Omens), also known as I am a history nerd and I don't care who knows, historical events
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2020-04-12 16:02:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 51
Words: 68,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19135411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: Every so often, a certain demon and a certain angel ran into each other.





	1. 2197BC – Shinar

**Author's Note:**

> This is purely for my own amusement, but with 6000 years of history and 1000+ years between Arthurian and Shakespeare flashbacks, there's plenty of time for small encounters and the growing relationship between the lads. How was I meant to resist that?

The angel was standing at the edge of the building site when Crawly spotted him. He looked worried. Crawly couldn’t blame him.

He wound his way around the edge of the site to the angel’s side.

“Your doing?” he inquired.

The angel started, clutching his heart. “Oh! Crawly!” He frowned. “What was that?”

Crawly waved towards the ongoing construction. They were expanding out, a seventh level above the previous six. They even had people cooking up wet blocks of mud to make it last longer. “This. Your lot put them up to it?”

Aziraphale chewed his lip and shook his head. He _really_ didn’t look happy about it.

No wonder, really.

Last time they’d really chatted, there was a boat and a… significant whittling down of the population happening. Now, the humans were back together, numerous again, and working eagerly on a tower that they said was meant to “reach the Heavens”.

You didn’t want to go reaching up that way. You never know who might reach down and give you a good hard slap.

“I thought–” Aziraphale began, then hesitated, fidgeting with his ring. “It’s not one of yours?”

Crawly shook his head.

“You– are you sure?”

The demon made a face at him. “Do I look that stupid to you?”

“It’s… well, it is a bit… silly of them.”

Silly. Good word for it.

If they managed, if their little construction project _did_ reach Heaven, Crawly could imagine a few people of the obnoxious and winged variety who wouldn’t be pleased to see them. Humans were meant to stay crawling around on the dirt where they belonged.

Heaven wouldn’t like unexpected callers.

“I told them it wasn’t a good idea,” Crawly volunteered.

“You did?” Aziraphale glanced at him. “Why?”

The demon shrugged. There was an answer to that question, but it wasn’t one he was willing to share with the angel. Or with anyone really. Sometimes, questions were best unasked and challenging someone wasn’t the good idea it seemed. “Dunno.” He rocked on the balls of his feet, then, after a moment of thought, tried, “Thought it was one of your little projects.” He shot the angel a wry grin. “Good thing they didn’t listen to me, eh?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale shifted from one foot to the other anxiously. “This was really all their own idea?”

Crawly nodded.

There were black clouds gathering. Those boded. Never saw a big dark gloomy cloud like that that didn’t bode. Especially not when the humans were mucking around and doing things that were making both an angel and a demon twitchy.

There was a crack of thunder that shook the ground.

Crawly shuddered.

“D’you think we should maybe…?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Not in any particular direction, except away.

Aziraphale turned and looked at him, puzzled. He said something, but it sounded garbled.

“What?” Crawly asked, frowning. “I didn’t catch that.”

Panic spread on Aziraphale’s face. He babbled out something else, all nonsense.

Crawly stared at him. “What the Heaven’s going on?” he demanded.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one reacting the same way. All across the building site, people had stopped working. They were all yelling at each other, but only a handful of them still made sense to him and to each other and–

“Well, shit,” Crawly said.

Aziraphale seemed to have noticed as well. When he spoke, it was in a language that came well before humans, something divine and something that Crawly could mercifully still understand. “Oh dear.”

Crawly gave him a look. “Well, there’s an understatement.” He waved to the building site. “What the Heaven did they do that for? How are they meant to get anything done if they can’t even talk to each other?”

Aziraphale’s expression was pained. “My dear fellow,” he said carefully, as if afraid of offending, “I think that’s the point.”

“Oh.” Crawly stared out at the people, who were gathering in desperate huddles, finding those who could still understand them. The tower had been forgotten. “Damn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Note** : Genesis 11 v 1-8


	2. 2000BC - Canaan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One After Sodom and Gomorrah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, this ties in with something mentioned in a show-canon scene. Accordingly, I have shamelessly claimed it and used it for my own :)

It had been a while, but Crawly was never one to forget a face and he definitely wasn’t one to forget the feathery blond curls and the aura of a certain angel who had accidentally given him access to a particular garden and a certain apple. 

The fact the angel was face-down on the floor, drunk, was new. 

He sidled his way through the throng of humans. They were celebrating something, but he couldn’t really remember what it was. Whatever it was, there was plenty of date wine, fermented in skins and jars until it was potent enough to kill an elephant.

Or knock an angel out.

Crawly gave the angel a cautious poke with his sandalled foot. No response. That meant the wine was either stronger than the humans intended or Aziraphale had definitely been drinking a lot more than Crawly gave him credit for. If it was the former, the party was going to become a lot more depressing very quickly. But if it was the latter… 

The demon frowned, squatting down beside him. He pushed back one of the angel’s eyelids, unsurprised to see the pupil was wide and dark. “What on earth happened to you?” he murmured, propping his arms on his upraised knees. 

A couple of humans staggered by, almost stepping on the fallen angel.

Crawly hissed at them instinctively, satisfied when they tottered back a few steps, then gave the angel another careful poke. This time, at least, Aziraphale groaned, tightening his arm around the pitcher he was hugging to his chest. A little wine spilled over the rim, soaking into the pale woollen shift he was wearing, darkening the fabric.

It was daft to be worried about him, lying there and all. Would serve him right if he got stepped on or robbed or whatever humans felt like doing to him.

And yet…

Crawly groaned inwardly. The decision wasn’t even one that needed to be made.

“C’mon, angel,” he sighed, pulling the jar free from Aziraphale’s grip and slipping his shoulder under the angel’s. 

It took no effort at all to get them outside. No effort. Just a few strategic snaps of hellfire at heels to get the humans moving out the way. Some of them saw the others lolloping about and suddenly, they had decided that it was a dance party.

By Crawly’s side, Aziraphale was almost a dead-weight, his feet dragging behind him. It didn’t seem like him to get so paralytically drunk, especially not when surrounded by humans. Not that Crawly knew him all that well, but even the few times they had crossed paths, Aziraphale always seemed a very… well, not stiff, but anxiously-sensible kind of person. 

The town square was quieter in the twilight. A few oil lamps were burning, visible through the sharp-cut windows in the mud-brick houses. And thankfully, the well in the middle of the square was free of gossiping women.

Crawly set the angel down against the stone wall that circled the well and reached for the leather bucket. It was a human way to try and bring the angel around, but it wasn’t like he could risk a demonic miracle, could he? Even if it worked – and he wasn’t sure it would – it might ring some alarm bells down below. 

Still, he was a demon, so there was a tiny little bit of pleasure in pouring the night-cool bucket of water squarely over the angel’s head.

Aziraphale recoiled, spluttering and gasping, his head knocking back against the wall of the well.

“Morning,” Crawly said amiably, dropping the bucket back down the well. 

Bleary blue eyes squinted up at him as he hauled the bucket back up. “S’you?”

It took a minute for him to haul the bucket up again, then he offered it down to the angel. “Looks like you could do with this.”

Aziraphale stared at the water, then at him, bewildered.

Crawly raised his eyes towards the sky, wondering if God was having a good laugh at his expense, then tipped the second bucket of water straight over the angel as well. 

The angel yelped, flailing his arms as if it could stop the water landing on him.

“You could’ve drunk it,” Crawly said. “Too slow.”

Aziraphale rubbed a dripping hand over his face. Y’bastard.”

Now that made Crawly grin. “Yeah, angel.”

Aziraphale winced as if the word had pained him. “Mm.” He pressed both hands to his head. “Oh Heavens…”

“Maybe try sobering up?”

The angel blinked at him in confusion. “What?”

“Sober up? Not be drunk anymore?”

For several beats of a heart, Aziraphale gaped at him as if he didn’t understand, then he closed his eyes and scrunched up his face in concentration. Power flared around him, brief and bright, then he sagged back against the wall again. “Oh.” His voice was small. “I didn’t know we could do that.”

Crawly sat down on the wall, dangling his legs down by the angel. “S’useful, isn’t it?” He waggled his fingers. “Gets us out of the hangovers too.”

“Yes.” He could see the way the angel was gathering himself, guilt, embarrassment, annoyance and a dozen other emotions skimming across his face. “Yes, thank you.” He didn’t look up, though he sat a little straighter against the wall. 

Neither of them spoke, but Crawly watched the angel knot his hands together again.

“Something up?” he inquired. 

“Hm?” Aziraphale was stiff as a board.

He shrugged, swinging his legs back and forth. “You. On-the-floor drunk. Didn’t expect to trip over you at a party up this way.”

The back of the angel’s neck went red. “I’m allowed to let off steam once in a while,” he snapped defensively. 

Crawly held up his hands. “Never said you weren’t. This wasn’t really letting off steam though, was it?” He knocked his leg gently against the angel’s shoulder. “What’s up?”

He’d have had to be blind to miss the way the angel hunched up. “Oh. You know. The work. It can be quite tiring.”

Crawly cocked his head, his hair sliding over his shoulders. Coming from the angel who had overseen the ironically-named great flood, it had to be something awful. “Another floating zoo?” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “Oh, no. Nothing quite as… vast as that.”

“Well, no.” Crawly swung his feet again, back and forth, back and forth. “If she kept doing that, we’d run out of people eventually.” He considered the angel’s damp head. “A lot of deaths, though?” The smallest of twitches of the angel’s head. “Ah.”

Aziraphale’s hands twitched convulsively in his lap. “I can’t believe there wasn’t one person worthy of redemption there!” he exclaimed. “I mean yes, some of them were awful and rude and wanted to do the most… beastly [1] things to us, but they can’t _all_ have been bad! There were children, for heaven’s sake! Babies!”

A whisper from the courts of hell surfaced in Crawly’s mind. Cities to the south that had been scorched from the map. Not just killed, but decimated and razed with that terrifying celestial fire that God’s legions carried on special, smitey occasions. The souls of the residents of the cities had poured into hell, every one of them, which was – as Aziraphale observed – not usual.

“Gomorrah?” Crawly said quietly.

The angel nodded convulsively. “You’ve heard about it?” 

“Mm.” There wasn’t much that could be offered as comfort about something like that. It certainly explained why the angel had been taking refuge in his wine. “Bad business.” 

“Yes.” The angel released a shivering sigh. “Quite.”

Crawly watched him for a few seconds, then knocked his foot against the angel’s arm. “Want to get a drink?”

Aziraphale looked up at him, his eyes wide and startled by the twilight. “Why would you do that? With me, I mean? I– we’re _enemies_.”

Crawly wasn’t even sure himself, so he shrugged. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” 

He half-expected the angel to retreat in righteous indignation. He couldn’t be sure which one of them was more surprised when Aziraphale got to his feet, brushed himself down, and nodded.

“All right.”

“All right?” Crawly stared at him.

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s expression was stubbornly fixed. “Let’s go for a drink.” He turned and marched purposefully back towards the party. Crawly didn’t realise he’d forgotten to follow him until the angel looked impatiently back over his shoulder. “Well? Are you coming?”

Crawly grinned. Oh, this angel was _interesting_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: In case you couldn't tell, this one is Sodom and Gomorrah (plus two cities which are glossed over because these are the big ones)
> 
>  
> 
> [1] for the record, Aziraphale is referring to the threat of rape, plus violation of guest rites and laws of hospitality of the time. Newer translations are a bit less... blunt about what the city people were planning to do.


	3. 1766BC - Peniel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With the Wrestling Match

Everything was in place.

The extended family of the man were across the stream, along with all his beasts and the possessions of his household. The man remained, setting up a small campfire, and looking around. He was waiting for something. Or, more accurately, someone.

Aziraphale dusted down his robes, checking that they looked pristine and spotless. It wouldn’t do to make a bad impression. There was a smudge of dust on one sleeve and he frowned, rubbing at it, before performing a surreptitious miracle to get rid of it.

“Oh for Satan’s sake…”

Aziraphale’s heart sank. “Oh no…” He turned and found an indignant demon glaring at him. “What do you want?”

“What do _I_ want? Here he comes, stepping on my toes, and he asks what _I_ want?”

“Stepping on your–” Aziraphale puffed up indignantly. “Excuse me, but this chap is one of ours!”

“Yours?” Crawly said, hands on his hips. “Excuse _me_ , who tempted him to steal his brother’s birthright? And con all those animals out of his uncle? And have it away with every member of the female household?” The demon shook his head. “Nope. He’s ours. Definitely ours.”

“He’s of the house of Abraham!” Aziraphale protested.

“Ooh!” Crawly made a face. “Some pedigree there! Is this the same Abraham who would’ve offed his own lad?”

“That was a test!” Aziraphale wailed. “Don’t keep on about it! He was never going to hurt him!”

“No, course not.” Crawly waved a hand. “Just tying him up and putting a knife to his throat. Definitely not at all traumatising for the poor little sod.” He took a step closer, in what Aziraphale could only assume was meant to be a threatening stance. “Bugger off, angel. I’ve worked hard on this one!”

“And I _haven’t_?” Aziraphale bristled indignantly. “I was the one who blessed him! Who guided his path!”

“Who made him have sex with the help?”

“I–” Aziraphale glowered at him. “You know very well that was Rachel’s own idea!”

Crawly made a face. “Yeah. Tell me again how they belong to your lot.” He peered out through the branches of the trees. “What are you here for anyway?” His eyes flicked over the angel and he arched an eyebrow. “Looking all dressed up as well…” His mouth opened. “This is a manifestation for a blessing, isn’t it?”

“Um…” Aziraphale fidgeted. “Well. Yes. Sort of.”

“Sort of? How can you ‘sort of’ manifest for a blessing?”

The angel huffed, folding his arms. “I don’t see why I should tell you, _demon_.”

Crawly stuck out his forked tongue. “Fine,” he snorted. “You’re blushing enough to tell me I’m right.” He drew back from the bushes and walked in a tight circle. “So… here’s the thing. I’m here to do a bit of tempting.” He considered the angel again. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

Aziraphale blinked, bemused. “I beg your pardon?”

Crawly made an impatient gesture with his hand. “We play for it.” He made three hand gestures. “You do one, I do one, and one of us wins.”

“That’s hardly fair, when you know the rules and I don’t.”

“Ugh!” Crawly threw back his head, rolling his eyes. “Satan’s sake, angel!” He huffed noisily. “Fine. I have dice with me. We can use those.”

“No!” Aziraphale said firmly. “I’m here to do a blessing and I’m…” The word stuck on his tongue.

“Go on,” Crawly goaded, grinning. “Say it. Say you’re ‘damned’.”

Aziraphale scowled at him. “I’m _jolly_ well going to do it.” He strode out through the bushes, then yelped in dismay as a demon smacked squarely into his back, bearing him to the ground. “Crawly!”

“Can’t do it, angel!” Crawly hissed close to his ear. “My lad. My job.” He vaulted off Aziraphale’s back and sprinted, hiking up his robes, sandals flapping on the loose shingle of the riverbank. “Oi! Oi, Jacob!”

“Crawly!” Aziraphale’s voice reverberated with divine outrage.

“Jacob!” Crawly yelled even louder. “Glad tidings! Great news!”

The human scrambled to his feet, whipping around, rapture and dread on his face in equal measure.

“Ignore him!” Aziraphale bellowed, gaining ground on the demon.

Crawly spun around with a wide grin and snapped his fingers and the world shifted sideways so sharply that Aziraphale lost his footing. When he found it – or some semblance of it – it took him a moment to make sense of why his robes were over his head. And more specifically, why he was upside down.

Ten minutes of fighting later, he managed to untangle himself from the tree Crawly had dropped him in and lowered himself to the ground.

“You–” A series of suitably bad words lined themselves up on Aziraphale’s tongue and he bit down on every single one of them, stamping back in the direction of the riverbank.

A squeak of pain greeted him, before he even stepped out from between the bushes.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Crawly yelped. “That’s not what I said!”

Aziraphale peered out through the trees, then clapped a hand to his mouth to stifle his laughter.

Crawly was on his belly on the ground and Jacob was sitting on his back, pulling his legs up in an unforgiving wrestling lock. “I’m just saying!” the demon protested, scrabbling at the ground, “That maybe you want to consider–”

He grunted hard, the air driven from his lungs as Jacob flipped them both.

Aziraphale stepped out among the bushes and sat down on a rock. With a mild flourish of one hand, he swept away the grass and bark stains from his robe and, for good measure, added a divine glow so Crawly couldn’t miss him.

“Angel!” Crawly scrabbled at the stone, trying to break Jacob’s grip on him. Say what you wanted to about shepherds, but they were sturdy fellows. Hefting a skinny demon was probably nothing compared to wrestling a stubborn ram into submission. “Angel, help!”

Aziraphale took his time straightening his robes, then folded his hands in his lap.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaangel!” Crawly wailed as the human managed to pin him again.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said innocently. “I thought this was your job? Weren’t those your exact words?”

Crawly managed to break Jacob’s grip on him, staggering to his feet. The human was back on his feet too, his centre low, his eyes fixed on the silver-outlined figure of the demon in the moonlight, sparks of gold from the fire casting strange highlights.

“You can have him,” Crawly panted. “S’all yours.”

Jacob charged like a bull and Crawly made a sound oddly like “neeeee?” as the human’s shoulder caught him in the middle and lifted him off his feet.

“It looks like you annoyed him,” Aziraphale said helpfully, trying very hard not to laugh as the demon futilely pummelled on the human’s meaty shoulder.

“Not helpful!” Crawly exclaimed, wriggling and squirming like the snake he was.

Aziraphale made a show of examining his nails, while Crawly was hauled, carried, rolled and generally twisted into forms that no human – and possibly no demon, except one who was by nature a serpent – could possibly survive.

“I do wonder how the temptation is going, dear fellow,” he said, adjusting his pinkie ring.

“Bastard!” Crawly wailed.

It should have grown boring and embarrassing very quickly, but Aziraphale had to admit it only grew more entertaining when Crawly – in a fit of desperation – shifted back into his serpent form. If anything, that enraged the human even more and abruptly, Crawly found himself closely resembling the shape of a pretzel. When he finally managed to untangle himself and slunk behind Aziraphale’s rock, he was breathing hard.

In the name of fair play and mercy, Aziraphale drew a shield over them both for a moment.

“Enjoying yourself, angel?” Crawly groaned, rubbing at his limbs.

“Maybe next time, you don’t try and interfere in my business?” Aziraphale suggested primly. He peered down at him and winced. “Those are some rather nasty bruises, aren’t they?”

The demon threw a black look up at him. “Shut up,” he grumbled.

Aziraphale sighed and reached down, pressing a hand to Crawly’s shoulder. It wasn’t much of a miracle, but it was enough to shrink the purpling bruises to faded green and gold. “I’ll step in, my dear. You really aren’t built for wrestling.”

Crawly stared at him. “You’re… you know you don’t have to wrestle him. He’ll probably be _delighted_ to see you.”

Aziraphale rose from the rock. “Therein lies the trouble, my dear. You didn’t let me finish. He was here to confront an envoy of the Almighty.” He tapped his chest. “It seems he assumed that confront meant combat.”

“But you’re–” Crawly staggered to his feet. “You _can’t_.”

Aziraphale smiled slightly at him, though not without a little sadness. “I _was_ a soldier, Crawly. I’ll be perfectly fine.” He turned and stepped back through the veil to meet Jacob head-on.

To his credit, the human did put up a decent fight, although Aziraphale had to hide a little relief when – inexplicably – Jacob’s hip popped out of its socket. The angel didn’t allow his eyes to flick to Crawly, though he had a sneaking suspicion it was less his leg-lock and more demonic intervention that had caused the damage.

The poor fellow was black and blue all over, bleeding from the nose and rasping with every breath when the sun began to crest the horizon.

What could have been a brutal final blow, Aziraphale offered with gentleness, pinning the man, but a hand behind his head to shield him from the worst of the impact. “We are finished here, Son of Isaac.”

Jacob grasped at his arm, the arm currently locked across Jacob’s throat. “No, Lord,” he gasped out, blood frothing the corners of his mouth. “Bless me. Bless me before we are finished. I will not release you until you bless me!”

Aziraphale looked at the proud, bloody, beaten human beneath him. “Give me your name.”

Jacob gave him a pink-toothed smile. “Jacob.”

Aziraphale drew his arm free easily of the man’s grip and touched his brow. “Your name will no longer be Jacob,” he said gently, letting the blessing pour into every word. “You have struggled with God and with Men, and you have won; so your name will be Israel.”

Jacob struggled to sit up, staring at him. “Tell me your name,” he asked, his hand at his aching hip.

“Why do you want to know my name?” Aziraphale shook his head and rose. He touched the man’s face, offering him one last smile, then stepped back from him and back into the place where only Crawly could see him.

The demon was sitting on the rock, arms wrapped around his upraised knees.

“Not bad,” he said quietly.

“Hm?” Aziraphale limped over, far stiffer and much sorer than he liked.

“You,” Crawly said. “That.” He gave Aziraphale a lop-sided smile. “Didn’t know you had it in you.” He made a face. “But you’re a right state now.” He made a sharp gesture and the blood and dirt and stained vanished from Aziraphale’s robes.

“Oh!” Aziraphale blinked in surprise, looking down at him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

The demon unfolded, getting back to his feet. “And you could’ve let me get pummelled all night, but you took the beating instead. Call us even.”

“Even,” Aziraphale agreed, then added, “but if you _ever_ drop me halfway up an oak tree again, I _will_ leave you to be pummelled all night long.”

The demon grinned at him. “That’s fair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes: Genesis 32:22-32


	4. 1450BC - The Red Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With the Parting of the Red Sea

“Fancy meeting you here!”

Aziraphale glanced up in confusion at the voice. By the light of the pillar of fire, he recognise the golden eyes and blood red hair of the demon. “Oh. Hello.”

Crawly cocked his head, staring at him unblinking. “Something wrong?”

Aziraphale looked back down at the scene before him. Hundreds of people were picking there way across the rocky waterway, towering waves rising up on either side. He ought to be happy to see so many people making their way to safety, but after watching Azrael at work in Tanis, it felt a little inappropriate.

“No,” he lied, folding his hands together in his lap. “Just under orders to keep an eye on the exodus.”

Crawly slouched down to sit on a rocky outcrop beside him. “Ah. Yes. We’ve got some surprises up ahead for them as well.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. Of course they did. It wasn’t enough to just let them be for a while. Always trials, always testing. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Me?” Crawly made a face. “Nah. I’m just nosy and there’s only so much you can do in a barren wasteland before you go a bit weird.” He flashed a grin at Aziraphale. “Need to keep tabs on the competition as well.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “The competition?”

Crawly looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. “My nemesis? The guardian against my temptations?” He must have recognised Aziraphale’s confusion and leaned closer, wiggling his eyebrows. “Angel of the Eastern Gate?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale blinked. “Oh! You mean me?”

Crawly stretched out his legs, spreading his toes against the rocks. “Don’t see any other angels about, do you?” He knocked Aziraphale’s elbow with his. “Don’t worry. You’re doing very well.”

“Well?” Aziraphale couldn’t help his confusion. “As an angel or as a… nemesis?”

Crawly shrugged, a snake-like ripple that rolled across his shoulders. “Both?” He looked out across the water at the pillar of fire. “S'that hellfire?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Aziraphale exclaimed indignantly. “It’s holy fire!”

The demon squinted at him. “You have that too? Odd. I thought fire was our thing. All destructive and tormenty and burning and all that. You lot were meant to have the water - life-giving and all that nonsense.”

Aziraphale stared out across the opened sea. It would close soon enough, but he was certain that for the Egyptians on the far side, it would be far from life-giving. “I’m sure there are reasons.”

“Hm.” Crawly wriggled one toe under a rock and gave it a push, sending a cascade of pebbles sliding down the hillside. “There always are.” He didn’t look at Aziraphale as he said it, but from the corner of his eye, Aziraphale saw the demon’s lip twitch. “Probably ineffable ones.”

When he shot a reproachful look at Crawly, the demon just grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: Exodus - Chapter 14


	5. 1448BC - Mount Sinai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With the Golden Calf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll freely admit I'm playing a bit fast and loose with the dates for the Biblical stuff, but that's not entirely my fault. It's purely because no two theological scholars seem to agree on the maths. That's why they're theologians and not maths teachers.

All things considered, it had all gone rather well.

While Moses was not entirely comfortable with non-hieroglyphic letters, he had paid close attention as Aziraphale helpfully explained what each of the commandments were. Most of them were common sense, but humans did tend to need some very direct instructions from time to time.

They were quite beautiful too, inscribed into smooth slabs of polished stone, and still glowed with the inner light of divine fire.

Aziraphale had to admitted he was rather excited to see what the children of Israel would make of them. After all, the Almighty so seldom made direct contact these days, especially not to hand-deliver a Being a Good Human manual.

He skipped ahead, leaving Moses to pick his way carefully down the mountain with the tablets cradled protectively to his chest.

That was why the angel saw the chaos of the sprawling camp long before the human. Fires were lit and the ululations of the people carried in the night air. They were dancing and singing and even from halfway down the mountain, he could feel the raucous energy.

A flick of his fingers took him instantly to the heart of the camp and his heart dropped like a rock.

“Oh no.”

On a raised mound of rock in the middle of the gathering, there was a statue of an animal. By the torchlight, it gleamed.

“Aziraphale!” The familiar voice hit him a second before an arm was flung around his shoulder. “Good t’see you!”

Aziraphale whipped around, shoving his assailant away. “Crawly!”

The demon swayed on the spot, grinning at him. “Yeah, s’me.” He threw his arms out wide, wine sloshing from the clay cup in his hand. “Isn’t this the _best_ party?”

“The best–” Aziraphale cut himself off and stared around. Of course there had to be some kind of demonic intervention. “You _idiot_!”

Crawly squinted at him, frowning. “S’not very nice.” He burped, then sniggered. “Par’n me.”

“What the Hell have you done?” Aziraphale demanded angrily.

Golden eyes blinked at him. “Lil drinkie?” He swayed forward and tapped the middle of Aziraphale’s chest. “You know… they’re very clever, humans. Making lil drinkies with the…” He waved a hand. “Squishy things. Come from the tall sticks with the green bits…”

“That’s _not_ what I’m talking about!” He waved at the statue that the people were… oh, there could be no denying, they were worshipping it.

“The baby cow?”

Aziraphale frowned, looking over his shoulder. “Is that what it’s meant to be?”

“I,” Crawly said, enunciating very carefully, “just said I missed cows. Big water cow things. An’ they prayed to ‘em back cross the water. Big ones. That– whatsername? Cow-lady. Massive…” He waved vaguely in front of his chest.

Aziraphale closed his eyes wondering if it was possible to have a headache from annoyance. “You mean Hathor?”

“Hathor!” Crawly beamed at him. “S’the one!” He made a face at the statue. “S’a bit rubbish, in’t it?”

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “Crawly,” he said, trying very hard to keep him temper. “Their leader is about to come back down the mountain with the word of the Almighty.”

Crawly stuck out his forked tongue. “Ooh, lucky him.”

“No!” Aziraphale caught him by the arm. “I don’t think you understand. The _actual_ word of the Almighty! Given to him, in person, by…” He pointed sharply upwards.

The demon’s snake-like eyes suddenly focussed on his face and in a blink, the demon looked stone-cold sober, expression twisting in horror. “Oh shit…”

“Yes!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “You have to stop all of this!”

“Oh!” Panic was rife on Crawly’s face. “Yes. Right. Okay. Uh….” He looked frantically around the camp. “Um… how do I do that?”

“How should I know?” Aziraphale wailed. “You started it!”

“No I didn’t! I just mentioned Hathor to some idiot over there and he got a bit excited!” Crawly yelled back at him. “S’not my–” His eyes widened in dismay as he looked beyond Aziraphale and Aziraphale – with a horrible feeling of foreboding – turned.

Moses was standing on one of the lower ridges of the mountain, his face white with fury.

“Oh no, no, no, no, no…” Crawly moaned behind the angel.

Aziraphale’s own mouth was dry as a bone.

“What do we do, angel?” The demon was so close behind him that Aziraphale could feel the heat of his body. Close enough to be hiding and using Aziraphale as an angelic shield.

Above them, Moses raised his arms, the stone tablets gleaming with their inner fire.

Aziraphale tensed his body for impact. “Duck?”

They were only made of stone. They should have just cracked when they hit the ground and that would have been that, but the word of God set loose on the earth was not a gentle force. The blast threw every person on their feet to their knees, all but an angel and the demon hiding behind him.

Clouds of dust showered the camp, the torches guttered and after the silence, low wails and cries of despair rang out.

And from behind the angel, there was a very tiny, very awkward. “Bugger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: Exodus - Chapter 32


	6. 1222BC - Ophrah

“Very impressive.”

Aziraphale winced as he shuffled deeper into the thorny thicket, out of sight of the wailing, praying human, who was throwing dust on his head and tearing at his clothes. “Shut up.”

“Just saying,” Crawly said conversationally, face speckled with sun-dappled shadows. “Pillar of fire. Old-school.”

The angel glowered at him. “Do you just like to show up to annoy me?”

Crawly grinned. “Yeah, sometimes.” He peeked out through the scrub. “Why didn’t you just… you know… dematerialise or something? Diving into a hedge while he was distracted isn’t exactly angelic, you know.”

“Because,” Aziraphale hissed, then adjusted his voice to echo around the buildings. “Peace be to you. Do not fear! You shall not die!”

“Ohhh,” Crawly said, nodding. “I see. Come for the magic show, stay for the ventriloquism act.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, trying not to scratch at himself. The soil was dry and itchy and getting absolutely everywhere. “Why are you even here?”

“You mean apart from to annoy you?”

“Well, _obviously_.”

Crawly shrugged. He didn’t seem to be bothered by the thorns, Aziraphale noticed irritably. Not even a strand of his hair was catching on the branches. “Got a couple of temptations coming up tomorrow in the town. Thought I’d see what else was happening.”

“Temptations?” Aziraphale eyed him warily. “Anything I should be worried about?”

“And spoil the surprise?” Crawly widened in his eyes. He shook his head. “Nah. Nothing much. Kind of depends on your lad there.”

Well, that was rather worrying. “My lad?”

“What was it you were telling him before you char-grilled everything? Smiting the Midianites or something?” Crawly wiggled his finger in his ear. “Wasn’t really paying much attention.” He gave Aziraphale a cheerful grin. “I’m the pushback.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes Heavenwards. “Of course you are.” He wriggled further back through the bushes, sighing with relief when he broke through the other side, well out of sight of Gideon. He dusted himself off, picking spiky spines and leaves from his hair and robe.

Crawly squirmed out too, though a great deal more easily. “Any idea what he’ll get up to?”

The angel sniffed primly. “And spoil the surprise?”

Crawly flicked his tongue at him. “Funny.”

“To be honest, I have no idea,” Aziraphale admitted. “You know what humans are like. Give them an inch and next thing you know, everything’s on fire.”

“Bleh.” Crawly wrinkled his nose. “Well… I look forward to thwarting your good deed.”

“I beg your pardon!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “You can’t _thwart_ a good deed! You can only thwart evil things!”

Crawly frowned thoughtfully. “Nah, I’m pretty sure I can. Thwart, impede, stop, generally muck-up? All come under the same umbrella, don’t they?”

“Well…” Aziraphale huffed. “You _shan’t_.”

In hindsight, he should never have ignored Crawly’s snakey grin.

 

________________________________

 

In the shadow of the threshing barn, Aziraphale sidled up beside the demon.

“I can’t _believe_ you tempted him,” he hissed.

Crawly snickered, peeking around the edge of the barn wall, where the human was laying out a fleece. “Don’t blame me. Blame your side’s choice of an anxiety attack on legs.” He glanced back at Aziraphale, red and gold tilted silver in the moonlight. “D’you know he didn’t do the temple raid until everyone was in bed? And he _still_ got caught?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “He _did_ it! That’s the main point. That’s proof of faith.”

“Uh-huh.” Crawly smirked. “And what’s he doing now? Keeping the floor warm?”

The angel flushed. It had been more than a bit embarrassing to get called in urgently by Gabriel. The human, he was informed, was showing signs of doubt and questioning God’s will. Evidence of faith had to be provided at once. The young man was _critical_ to the forthcoming plan.

“Looks to me,” Crawly singsonged, leaning closer to him, “like he’s testing God.”

Aziraphale huffed. “The pillar of fire usually works!” he exclaimed hotly. “Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone?”

Crawly’s teeth gleamed. “Oh… you know… thwarting.”

Aziraphale swatted him on the arm. “Well stop it!”

The demon muffled a snort in his hand. “Help, help!” he mock-wailed. “I’m being smote.”

Aziraphale leaned in closer. “You remember Jacob, don’t you?” he warned.

For a few seconds, Crawly gaped at him. “Did you just… threaten to wrestle with me?”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale retorted. “I’m an angel. I just happen to be rather capable of twisting people into pretzels. Should they cross me.” And then, because he really did try to be honest at all times, he added, “Hypothetically, of course.”

The grin that spread across Crawly’s face was not the expected response. “You _are_! You’re _threatening_ me.” He tugged on Aziraphale’s sleeve. “Go on. Do it again. It’s adorable!”

Aziraphale flushed. “Oh… shut up!” he snapped, hunching his shoulders and crossing his arms.

Crawly grinned at him. “You’re fun, angel.” He leaned around the side of the building again. “Oh! Right! He’s gone. Sheepskin’s in place.” He waved a hand extravagantly. “Go on. Restore his faith in the Almighty.”

The angel eyed him suspiciously. “Why? What are _you_ going to do?”

“Nothing.” Crawly said, all wide-eyed innocence.

 

__________________________________________

 

“Damn it all, Crawly!”

The demon was sitting on the stacked heap of bound bales of wheat in the barn, swinging his feet back and forth. “What?”

Aziraphale pointed in annoyance to the fleece spread out once more on the floor of the barn. It was pegged in place as it had been the night before, the skin still a little damp. “This again!”

“Ah.” Crawly adjusted his robe over his knee. “Well, I thought I’d try again. You know. Just in case he _really_ wasn’t sure. Turns out he wasn’t.”

“I soaked the stupid thing last night! Not a drop anywhere else! You’d think that and the pillar of fire would be enough!”

“Eh.” Crawly shrugged, all limbs and shoulders. “Humans. That Moses of yours was just as bad, wasn’t he?”

Aziraphale sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “And you won’t mess about with him again this time?”

“Can’t make any promises,” Crawly said cheerfully. “We’re both trying to persuade him. Up to him who wins. Free will. Wonderful thing, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together to keep from saying something very, very rude.

Crawly’s grin widened. “Oh, don’t make that face, angel. Looks like you bit a lemon.” He hopped up off the bales of wheat and wandered over to Aziraphale’s side by the fleece. “Tell you what – after you’re done here, I’ll treat you to a jar. How about that? Sportsmanlike?”

“A jar of… what precisely,” Aziraphale said warily.

The tip of Crawly’s tongue poked out. “Oh, I could have had some fun with that, couldn’t I?” He shook his head. “Usual. Wine. Beer. Whatever they have lying around.” He nodded towards the fleece. “Finish up and we can go and find out?”

Aziraphale gazed at him, then nodded. “Very well.” He snapped his fingers.

“Oi!” Crawly yelped.

“What, my dear?” Aziraphale said innocently.

The suddenly-soaked demon shook dripping hair out of his eyes. “What the Hell was that for?”

Aziraphale smiled as only an angel can. “The young man asked that everything on the ground, but the fleece, be covered in dew. _You_ were on the ground.” He clasped his hands happily together and turned towards the door. “Shall we? I believe you owe me a drink.”

Crawly made a sputtering sound. “You,” he grumbled, squelching after Aziraphale, “are an absolute bastard.”

“Oh no, my dear,” Aziraphale said serenely as he swanned out into the night. “I’m an absolute _angel_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes**
> 
> [The Calling of Gideon, Judges 6](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=judges%206&version=NIV)


	7. 994BC - Jerusalem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With a King, a Harp and a Rooftop Bather

“Who’s this clown?”

Aziraphale jumped, startled. “Oh! Crawly!”

The demon gave him a curt nod, then jerked his head towards the throne on the far side of the crowded throne room. “What happened to Saul?”

“Ah…” Aziraphale winced. By Heaven’s standards, it had all been a rather embarrassing affair, but no one wanted to point out that the Almighty was the one behind all the policy decision. “Yes. Well… it… there was… well…”

“Hold on.” The demon squinted. “It’s the bloody harp player! That boy they brought in!”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

Crawly waved a hand emphatically at the man on the throne. “Him!” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “Oh… whatsisface… the one that got all cosy with Saul’s boy! You know! Slingshot boy!”

“You… _knew_ David?”

“Knew him?” Crawly shook his head. “Nah. Heard him play a few times.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened in horror. “ _You_ were the evil spirit sent to torment Saul?”

Crawly beamed at him. “Yeah! Must’ve done a good job of it if you heard about it.” He sniffed thoughtfully, then looked back at his throne. “Didn’t Saul have kids? How did lambchop over there end up stealing the shiny chair?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat self-consciously. “He’s… God’s anointed.”

“God’s anointed,” Crawly echoed dryly. “You mean, just like Saul was God’s anointed, right up until he wasn’t?”

Aziraphale bristled. It was true, but it didn’t make it any easier to hear. “You _know_ Saul disobeyed the Almighty’s will.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crawly circled around behind him, peering at the gathered crowd. “Had a barbecue too early, didn’t he?”

“Sacrifice!” Aziraphale protested indignantly.

Crawly made a face, wrinkling his nose. “Six and half a dozen, really. Dead beastie, toasted and, oh look, the Priests have a nice grilled steak for dinner.”

“That’s not– it’s a religious–” Aziraphale threw his hands up with a huff. “What are you even doing here?”

“Apart from annoying you?” The demon grinned. “Heard about the fuss out west. Thought I’d pop by to catch up on all the news. Give or take a couple of years of wandering east. D’you know they’ve made a wine from _rice_? S’bloody good stuff too.”

“A couple of–” Aziraphale shook his head with a sigh. “He’s been on the throne for years now. It’s hardly news.”

“Eh. What’s a dozen years and more between friends?” Crawly shrugged. “Wonder if he still plays.”

At that, a small smile crossed the angel’s lips. “I’ve heard he does. They say if you sit on the rooftops in the evening, you will hear his music across the city.”

“S’that so?” Crawly rocked on the balls of his feet. “Might need to stick around.” He flashed a grin at the angel. “Fancy a drink this evening?”

“I shouldn’t–” Aziraphale began, though it was awfully tempting after so long without company.

“Me either,” Crawly replied, leaning closer conspiratorially. “Gonna do it anyway.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “You are a _terrible_ influence.”

Crawly snorted. “Obviously. Is that a yes?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed with not entirely feigned reluctance. “I suppose I must. I’ll be at the synagogue shortly after sunset. I have some things to attend to before then.”

“Right-o.” Crawly gave him one of the stiff, formal bows of the locals and backed away out the nearest doorway.

“Idiot,” Aziraphale muttered ruefully, though whether he was talking about himself or the demon, he couldn’t be sure. He turned his attention back to the King’s court and the reports coming in from the siege of Rabbat Ammon.

By the time evening fell and all his duties were done, a pleasant calm had settled over the city. It was a warm evening and Aziraphale sat on the wall beside the synagogue gates, watching the sky turn from shades of blue to purple then red and gold.

The first stars were out when Crawly finally appeared, sandals slapping against the ground, a panicked look on his face.

“Crawly?” Aziraphale rose at once. “Whatever’s the matter?”

Crawly held up his forefingers, panting hard. “First–” He doubled over, taking a deep breath, then straightened up. “Right. First off, wasn’t my fault. Total accident. No idea it was going to happen. Second… er… how happy was…” He waved Heavenwards. “I mean, Their first anointed was sent the way of the dodo. This one – good, bad, indifferent?”

Aziraphale’s heart sank. “What did you do?”

“Now, in my defence,” Crawly said, waving his finger. “I absolutely didn’t _do_ anything.”

“Crawly.”

“I’m just making it clear I wasn’t there with any instructions or–”

“Crawly!” Aziraphale snapped. “What the Hell have you done this time?”

“I just wanted to listen to him playing!” The demon wailed. “How was I meant to know there would be some daft baggage having a bath on the roof next door?”

Aziraphale made a small, faint sound, remembering the occasion when Crawly had mentioned cows to the wandering Israelites below Sinai. “What _exactly_ happened?” he demanded.

“He remembered me,” Crawly said, twisting his hands in his tunic. “I mean, he remembered scaring me off with his music. So he was playing and stuff and I was listening and then I noticed someone moving about on the roof and he came over to see what I was looking at.”

“Oh no…”

“Hey! I didn’t make him ogle her!” Crawly snapped. “Not my fault she had her…” He waved vaguely to his chest. “She should know better than to get her kit off when her building isn’t the highest one in the bloody city!”

Aziraphale sat back down on the wall, feeling rather queasy. “It– it might not be all bad,” he said with weak optimism. “I mean, a King needs wives, doesn’t he? Maybe it… perhaps it was the divine plan for him to see her?”

Crawly winced. “Ah. Yeah. About that…”

Aziraphale stared at him. “ _What_?”

“She’smarried.”

“She’s…” Aziraphale swayed back on the wall. “Oh dear _Lord_ …” He clasped his hands together, trying to think. “Well, if I head up there now, I can try and undo this mess…” He trailed off at the look on Crawly’s face. “…how much worse does this get?”

The demon fidgeted. “Um. Well. When I left… um… he was….” He cleared his throat. “Let’s just say he was… getting to know her. Very enthusiastically.”

“He literally saw her an _hour_ ago!” Aziraphale wailed. “He’s a good and honourable King! What the Hell did you do to make him do… that?”

“Not me!” Crawly yelled back at him. “Absolutely not me! His Royal Perviness and little miss Peep-show did it all by themselves!”

“But he’s– he was _anointed_!”

“So was Saul! Didn’t stop him lobbing a spear at your boy’s head, did it?”

“You tempted him into that!”

Crawly looked momentarily abashed. “Yeah, but it was funny at the time! Bet you wish it’d hit him now!”

Aziraphale got up, walking back and forth as he tried to gather his scattered thoughts. “This is a disaster! The King, God’s chosen, a common adulterer?”

“Free will, angel,” Crawly said, tugging on the end of his belt. “S’what they do.”

Aziraphale nodded unhappily. “I… I suppose I could convince him to pretend it never happened, couldn’t I?”

“Worth a try,” the demon said, “unless… you know…” He drew a curve in front of his belly, then laughed dismissively. “But what are the chances?”

“Right. Yes.” Aziraphale nodded. “That’s what we’ll do. Tell him to make the necessary sacrifices and seek the Almighty’s forgiveness for this… momentary lapse in judgement.” He forced a bright, brittle smile. “Everything will be _fine_.”

 

 

**Several months later**

The clay cup tapped on the wall beside the angel.

He looked down at it, then up at the person who had delivered it.

“Thought you might need that,” Crawly said, sitting down on the wall by him.

The night was cool, the stars sparkling across the sky, and the city was quiet.

Aziraphale picked up the cup and drained it, then held it out mutely. Crawly refilled it.

“Didn’t see that coming,” the demon said quietly.

“Mm.” Aziraphale gulped down the second cup. “My suggestion didn’t… go as planned. He – the husband – he was meant to come back and be with his wife and everyone would… assume it was his and everything would be…”

“Fine?” Crawly prompted.

The angel flashed a glare at him. “This isn’t amusing.”

“I’m not laughing,” Crawly pointed out. “You didn’t make any… other suggestions, did you?”

The angel shook his head. “I thought it would be enough.” He looked in the direction of the house of Uriah the Hittite. The wails and lamentations were still ringing from the new widow and her household. “I wanted to believe it was a coincidence.”

“I bet.” Crawly nudged him. “You sure he was behind it?”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale’s face twitched in a bitter impersonation of a smile. “I double-checked with…” He pointed upwards. “Apparently it’s…” – he exhaled shakily – “all part of the plan.”

Crawly hissed through his teeth. “Course it bloody is.” He leaned over and filled Aziraphale’s cup again. “How much time do you have?”

The angel shrugged. “Why?”

“Because we’re going to get you properly and utterly drunk.”

Aziraphale did manage a smile at that. “Perhaps,” he said, with considerably less reluctance. “Just this once.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Note:**  
>  This is based entirely on the David and Bathsheba incident in 2 Samuel, chapter 11, and was previously mentioned in the Eisteddfod chapter as the last time Crowley had been around harps. It also references King Saul, the first official King of the united tribes of Israel who disobeyed God's command and fell from grace because of it.


	8. 614BC – Miletus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With The Philosophers

**614BC – Miletus**

Crawly had been watching the kid for a few days.

He was small, skinny, and had a worryingly intense look about him. Crawly always liked a worryingly intense human. They were the kind of people who had thoughts that were big and interesting and did things like take an apple to learn.

He was sitting in the shade of an olive tree, scribbling shapes in the dirt with a stick.

Crawly coiled around the tree and leaned against the trunk. “Good drawing.”

The boy looked up.  “It’s the sky,” he said with a haughty glare.

Crawly grinned. Of course it was. “That so?” He crouched down beside the kid, then snatched the stick out of his hands. “You missed a few.” He prodded a few more of the constellations into the dirt, then held the stick out to the lad.

The boy stared at him. He had the dark Phonecian eyes, but his features were more Greek. “You can see all of them?”

Crawly nodded. “You just have to know how to look.”

The boy stared back at his drawing. His curiosity was licking like a flame.

Well, Crawly thought cheerfully, couldn’t say he wasn’t generous. He leaned closer and poured dry kindling straight onto the spark. “You ever wonder what they’re made from?”

“What?” The boy looked back at him and oh, he was _burning_.

“The stars,” Crawly said. “Or…” He waved around them. “What about this place?”

The boy nodded. “Everything works!” he confided. “There is something that makes everything work! The Gods do it all!”

There was an oil that some nations used as a weapon. Dip a bale of hay in it, add a spark, and all at once, you can unleash Hell. Crawly had seen cities and empires fall to chaos from one little spark and one little drop of oil. He knew how destructive a single drop could be.

He tilted his hand, lowered his voice, and spilled it.

“Do they?” he prompted, and in the boy’s eyes, he saw the light of burning questions take hold, a fire that would turn into an inferno.

He stayed a little longer, sketched a few more marks into the sand, fanning the flame with gentle prompts and subtle hints and nothing too obvious. Plenty of ideas, plenty of fresh, dry kindling to keep him going for a good long time.

When he rose, little Thales was staring wide-eyed at the patterns in the dirt.

Crawly smiled darkly as he walked away.

Humans had free will and that meant the free will to do things no angel ever could.

Ask your questions, boy, he thought. Ask _everything_.

 

**364BC – Grove of Hecademus**

There was a rather heated debate going on in the white flag-stoned courtyard.

Aziraphale popped a grape in his mouth, watching with interest. The two young men were citing Pythagoras, though there had clearly been some radical misinterpretation, for one of them was making no sense at all and the other was doing a fine job of tearing his argument to ribbons.

Technically, Aziraphale had no real reason to linger since his blessing was done, but the sun was warm, the grapes were sweet and the conversation was fascinating.

Plato’s academy had developed quite the reputation.

The cream of the intellectual crop made their way there, discussing everything from philosophy to the stars and everything in between. It was refreshing to dip one’s self in an intellectual pool from time to time, although he could imagine that the arguments might get a bit trying after some time.

He was down to the last grape on the stalk when something prickled on the edge of his awareness.

“What’s all this then?”

Aziraphale whipped round, then laughed with relief. “Oh! Crawly! It’s just you.”

“Just me?” Crawly made a face at him as he approached, the shimmering scarlet snake embroidered along the edge of his chiton rippling with each step. “Oh, I _like_ that. No hello, no nice to see you. No, no, no. Just ‘it’s just you’.” He framed the words, bracketing them with his fingers, then glanced around. “Surprised to see you in a place like this.”

“A school?”

The demon raised his eyebrows. “You do _know_ what they do in this school? They question everything! I mean _everything_! Even…” He jabbed a finger upwards.

Aziraphale stared at him, puzzled. “Yes?”

Crawly blinked slowly as if he didn’t quite understand. “What?”

“Why wouldn’t they question things? Humans do that. This lot have become rather good at it.”

Crawly looked like a wine skin rapidly draining of wine. “But–” He flapped a hand around. “They– it’s–” His breath exploded out of him in a gust. “Well, that’s just… stupid, isn’t it?”

“It is?” Aziraphale said, nonplussed. “They’re very well respected. There’s nothing stupid about it. A few of them have even been blessed with insight.” He leaned closer. “I’m very excited to see what young Aristotle comes up with. I have the feeling he will go far.”

The demon hunched his shoulders, a strange expression on his face. “Well… isn’t that just _wonderful_ for them,” he grumbled.

Aziraphale sighed. “Oh don’t be so petulant,” he said, holding out his last grape. “Acting like a child is very unbecoming.”

Crawly snatched the grape and rolled it between his finger and thumb before sullenly popping it in his mouth. “Fine,” he groused, then bit down with unnecessary force.

Aziraphale shook his head with a small sigh. “What are you doing here anyway?”

The demon grunted and nodded in the direction of the gates. A shabby, filthy man with a matted beard was striding in as if he owned the place. From the dust on his feet and legs, he had marched all the way from Athens, and was carrying a pinkish lump under one arm.

Aziraphale peered at him. “Oh good Lord, Crawly! I should have guessed that Diogenes was one of yours!”

Crawly made a face at him. “Says the angel surrounded by people questioning everything.”

“Why is–”

The small, shabby man came to a halt in the middle of the academy. “Behold!” he bellowed, a surprisingly powerful voice for such a skinny, bony beggar of a man. He thrust his burden high in the air and Crawly gave a snort beside Aziraphale as a plucked chicken was held aloft. “A MAN!”

The scholars stared at him as if he was mad.

Crawly was choking laughs against his fist.

Aziraphale was confounded.

“What on earth was that about?” he inquired, as the students – as a swarm – descended furiously on the grinning Diogenes, who hurled the chicken at them and demanded they refute him.

“S’Plato,” Crawly gasped out between breathless chuckles. “Said a man could be defined as a featherless biped.”

The orderly debate had descended into chaos. The educated young men were shouting in indignation at such disrespect, Diogenes was beaming as if he had just claimed a victory and the forlorn chicken was left lying in the dust. It was indeed a featherless biped.

Aziraphale coughed to try and cover his own laugh. “Did you tell him to do that?”

Crawly shook his head. “Just told him what Plato had been saying,” he said, still grinning. “Doesn’t take much with the philosophers. Give them a big enough hint and they’ll tilt the world with it.” He seemed much happier. “Easy job. Just showed up to see how he’d do it.”

“And you have successfully wreaked havoc with a madman and a chicken.”

Crawly preened, brushing his hand down the front of his chiton. “Why thank you, angel. Nice of you to notice.”

Aziraphale shook his head with another roll of his eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

Crawly raised his eyebrows. “Obviously.” He jerked his head towards the building on the far side of the courtyard. “Fancy seeing what they feed their big questioning brains here?”

Aziraphale glanced towards the gate. “I was meant to be–”

A fist fight had broken out, blocking his path.

“C’mon,” Crawly cajoled. “They’ll never notice. And I bet they spoil themselves rotten.” He nudged the angel’s arm. “Didn’t one of these lads say there’s no harm in repeating a good thing? And that grape was pretty good.”

“It was rather, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale said wistfully. They had burst so beautifully, sweet and juicy on his tongue. He twisted his hands together, then nodded. “All right. But only a small snack. Something for the road.”

“Course, angel,” said the tempter of Eden. “And maybe a bit of wine.”

Several hours later, pleasantly full and tottering a little bit, a tipsy angel went on his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical notes:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Thales of Miletus was considered one of the founders of Greek philosophy. He was a scientist, engineer, polymath, astronomer and generally incredibly curious little rabbit.
> 
> Fast-forward a couple of centuries and Plato's academy, just outside of Athens, was considered one of the pinnacles of Greek Philosophical thought. Aristotle studied at the academy for two decades. I've had to be a bit flexible with the dates, because Plato's work isn't dated, but this is in the time period when Aristotle has only been there for a couple of years. 
> 
> Diogenes was also a philosopher, but there's a reason he has been nicknamed the Philosopher Troll. He really, really enjoyed messing with people and disputing with them. The "Behold, a man!" incident actually happened in response to Plato's statement about featherless bipeds (which may or may not have been a tongue-in-cheek statement. Diogenes's prank apparently led to the addition of "featherless biped _with broad flat nails_ ~~dammit Diogenes!~~ "


	9. 534BC – Kapilavastu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With Buddha

It wasn’t the first time Crawly had visited a garden.

They were good places for a tempting, he’d found. This one was a fine one as well, wrapped around a many-towered palace. The upper crust and lounging in gardens always went hand-in-hand. Picking the low-hanging fruit, so to speak.

He slithered through the undergrowth.

There were some things it was easier to do as a snake and getting through low, dense bushes with spikes was definitely one of them.

Ahead of him, by a shallow pond, he could see the young human he’d been given orders to tempt. He frowned as much as his features would let him, pausing and tonguing the air. Yeah, okay, sometimes they sent him after the pious ones – who were surprisingly easy to poke at – but this one was a bit… different.

If his clothes and appearance were anything to go by, this one definitely belonged in the palace. He was striking, for a human, his dark skin clear and his hair groomed and drawn up on his head. His eyes, to Crawly’s surprise, were a shockingly pale shade of blue.

And – he noticed belatedly – they were looking right at him.

“Er,” he said.

The human’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he didn’t move, watching Crawly warily. “You spoke,” he said.

“No I didn’t.” Crawly winced and wished he’d bitten his tongue instead. “Bugger.”

The young man slowly moved from his seated position, into a crouch, able to flee if he needed to. “What are you?”

Crawly stared at him, then very deliberately looked down the length of his body that was sticking out of the undergrowth. “Guess.”

Those clear blue eyes fixed on his. “Not a snake.”

Crawly grinned. “Smart boy.” He stretched himself upwards, his body shifting until he was kneeling on the grass, the pleated folds of his red-stitched black dhoti spread around him. Like his target, his hair had arranged itself in a knot on top of his head.

If the young man was shocked, he didn’t show it. “Ah.” He nodded gravely. “A nāga.”

Crawly cocked his head. “A whatta?”

Now, the young man looked suspicious. “From the underworld?”

“Ohhhh! Yeah.” Crawly gave him a cheerful wave. “That’s me.”

The young man studied him. “Why have you come?”

Crawly scratched at his nose. “See what you’re up to, I s’pose. Not much, if you’re just sitting about in a palace, eh?”

Those clear blue eyes gazed at him. “No. I… suppose.” He glanced around, as if taking in the garden around him, then looked back at Crawly. “I have a duty to my father.”

Ah, there was the chink in the armour.

“Ahhh.” He nodded sympathetically. “So you’re stuck here. Shame. It’s a big world out there.”

The young man was watching him, though Crawly had a sneaking suspicion there was a lot more going on behind the eyes than the young human’s face was showing. “It is. Tell me, nāga, have you walked in the world?”

“Walked, slithered.” He nodded amiably. “I get around. You seen much of it?”

“A little.” The man sank back down to sit, one knee upraised. He propped his arm on it. “My father would have me happy. I want for nothing. I see people happy and at peace. This, I am told, is the best of lives.”

Crawly wrinkled his nose. “Don’t sound all that happy to me. Nice shiny cage, but still just that.” He jerked his head. “You tried going outside?”

The blue eyes flicked up to the walls and the guards posted at intervals.

“Ohhh.” Crawly winced. “Yeah. That’d be a problem. Unless you have a back door out of here?”

The young man’s lips twitched as if Crawly had picked up on his thoughts. “Ah, but my friend and I… we are guarded well. Our flight would be noticed.”

Well, that was easily remedied. Crawly leaned forward conspiratorially. “They don’t _have_ to notice you leaving, y’know.”

“Impossible.”

Crawly grinned. “Try me.”

 

—————————————–

 

**Several decades later – Yangzhou**

The work on the new canal was going well.

In the broad ditch, Crawly was carefully prodding at a worker’s resolve to keep digging when he felt the prickle of a familiar presence. He poked his head over the edge of the trench and grinned in delight.

“Oi! Angel!”

Aziraphale almost tripped over his own feet in his haste to turn around. “Crawly?” He looked genuinely surprised, as Crawly scrambled up out of the ditch. “Good Heavens. What on earth are you doing here?”

“Same as you – or, y’know, opposite direction.” The demon beamed at him, wiping his hands down on his hips. “Can’t have humans getting too efficient. Makes my lot look bad.”

“Hm.” The angel pursed his lips and with a flicker of a gesture, the dirt vanished from Crowley’s clothes.

Crawly snickered. “Bit pointless, when I’ll be going back down there.”

“It’s the principle,” Aziraphale retorted. He paused, then leaned a little closer. “Can I ask you something?”

Crawly shrugged. “Don’t see why not.”

“There have been some interesting… ripples, a little further west. Spiritual ones.” He glanced around, as if he was planning a heist or something. “There’s some kind of holy man. I saw him briefly. I can’t help feeling he might be someone significant. Do you know anything about him?”

“A holy man?” Crawly made a face. “If he’s that holy, I wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near him. Where’d’you hear about this one?”

“I was doing some work near the Ganges,” Aziraphale said softly. “I followed the river for a while and kept hearing his name. My side don’t know anything about it and I think it may be worrying them, if he’s as influential as he seems to be.”

Crawly shook his head. “Haven’t been along that way for a good while now. Could ask around down below. What was this holy man’s name?”

“They were calling him Gautama Buddha.”

Crawly blinked very slowly at him. “Gautama?”

“Yea.” Aziraphale frowned. “Are you all right, Crawly? You’ve gone a little pale.”

“Fine,” Crawly croaked. “F’you don’t mind, I should get back to work.”

He fled back down into the ditch, sinking down on the nearest boulder. Well, it was going to take one hell of an explanation to explain how the man who he’d helped to flee his duty and his mantle of royalty had ended up an infamous holy man.

“Why me?” he groaned, flopping back against the rock.

Sometimes, he wondered, if his life was just God’s idea of a grand celestial joke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:  
> \- 534BC - There's still some debate over the years Buddha lived. I took the more commonly agreed on ones, and the fact he lived in his father's house until he was 29.  
> \- Yangzhou - the building of the Great Canal took place over many, many years, but it was begun near Yangzhou around 486BC.
> 
>  
> 
> I originally thought Aziraphale would get this chapter, but then I was doing my reading and realised how many nagas feature in various tales of Buddha :) I had no choice. Also, allegedly, Siddartha and his companion managed to bust out of his father's palace because "the gods muffled their horses' hooves", which I thought was a fun anecdote to borrow :)


	10. 240BC – Nanzheng

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With a Comet

It always amazed Crawly how easily some humans could be swayed.

A word here, a nudge there, and the first seeds of a revolt were planted.

Yeah, okay, there were reasons, and that bloke next door could be a bit pushy, but honestly, you’d think it would take a bit more than one cup of rice wine and a “so, what about those people-who-live-over-that-way” prompt to get people all riled up.

He walked along the ridge of the roof, peering down into the courtyard. 

Man A was now talking urgently to Man B, who was looking thoughtful. Man B had connections to Man C and Man D. Ripples on a pond in action. They were smart enough to talk in the courtyard, away from the crowds inside the inn, but – and Crawly could always tell – they were already being watched with suspicion.

People, he thought, were always consistently people.

He crouched down to squat on the roof beside one of those… what were they meant to be? Dogs? Bears? Lions? Something big and toothy anyway. He braced his arms on the carved head and looked out over the rest of the town.

Not all that big now, but if things went the way they were meant to, it…

He frowned, movement in the sky catching his eye through a break in the clouds. He looked up, then laughed quietly. “Ah. Right on time.”

Against the dark velvet of the night sky, a star was moving. Not just any star. He remembered it from years back. So far back, in fact, that it was before a tree and fruit and swords and an ache in his wings.

Wouldn’t it be funny, he remembered saying, if we had one that boomeranged around every so often? Most stars were pretty good about staying where they were meant to be, but who wouldn’t like to see one go exploring? Like that moon-thing, always circling around, but give it a wider loop. Special treat once in a while. He’d said it, laughing, then went back to working on a nebula light years beyond the earth.

Somehow, he’d never bothered to stop and look to see if it had happened until well after the Fall and the garden and the apple and…

And one night, in the desert, a couple of centuries later, he saw it.

Coincidence, he’d thought at the time.

Almost eight decades later, it wasn’t so much of coincidence.

Century by century, he kept one eye on the heavens and without fail, it came around again and again. A wandering star, making its own way. And every time he saw it, there was that same wonder, awe and aching pang for a time long gone.

He unfolded his legs to sit on the ridge of the roof, legs dangling on either side, and propped his chin more comfortably on his arms as he watched the tailed star sliding across the sky. The clouds seemed to open up every time it threatened to vanish from view.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly, to someone who might not have been listening, just as he did every time it passed by.

As if they could still hear him, the star shone a little brighter.

Despite himself, Crawly smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: This chapter falls during the descent of the Qin dynasty, but before the Hans consolidated their power. Nanzheng later became a significant province for the Han authorities.


	11. 30AD – The wilderness, Judea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With a Sarcastic, Overly-Smart Carpenter from Nazareth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, a vague disclaimer: this chapter contains a rogue Jesus. Whether he is/isn’t the Messiah or is just some random fella is entirely up to you. But given that he’s a significant figure for in several religions, I think it can be agreed that he’s considered a holy person. (There are also some bonus verses in there, because Dude was knowledgeable about the Book)

**Day 1**

Crawly would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous.

This was Someone Important. No specifics, but enough to get the bigwigs downstairs anxious. A virtuous person. Ripe for corruption. The more they talked, the more he suspected it was some kind of big-name prophet. Prophets were always a bugger and a half. Some of them liked the ascetic, others were mad as land-locked fish. And then there one the ones who were so blisteringly holy that being around them was like being sandblasted in the face.

Still, Beelzebub had looked him full in the face and told him that this was his role. He’d tempted the first human and caused mankind to fall. If anyone was going to be able to tempt this one, then it was him. They were sure he could do it, they said, sending him out the door with a slap on the back and a target on his chest.

It wasn’t because he was good at his job.

Well… technically, it sort of was. But it was also because if he got himself melted by some holier-than-thou nutter, they had plenty of people who could step in and fill his sandals and probably bend their ear a lot less about the magic of beer.  

Only good thing was that he was in the middle of nowhere. No witnesses if he got embarrassingly combusted or something.

Instinct, habit – and maybe a little bit of fear – had him shift back to his older form. Better for the desert, he reasoned with himself. Made for deserts, snakes. Good at slithering. Plenty of nooks and crannies to hide in. Good way to get up-close and take a peek without being spotted. Just in case.

The… yeah, call him a man. Easier to call him a man. Not quite as panic-inducing. The man was up ahead, sitting on a low outcrop, his eyes closed, his legs folded under him, his hands resting loosely in his lap. He could’ve been any of the men Crawly saw day in, day out, in Judea. Sun-blasted brown skin, black hair, hands roughened by labour.

And then he opened his eyes.

It was – Crawly thought peevishly – very hard for a snake to gasp.

Holy, it was then.

Crawly stared at him across the rocky ground. He was still hidden in the prickling bushes, but he was close enough to feel the fervour.

“I knew you would come, my friend.”

The voice from up ahead made him recoil instinctively into the undergrowth. He saw the man tilting his head, found those eyes – not a mad one, this – gazing at him. The touch of the divine was there, but it was pure human in those eyes. No fear, though, which was bloody unfair.

Instinct made him hiss.

The man – Yeshua – smiled and nodded as if that was the answer he’d expected, then closed his eyes again against the brilliant daylight.

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 2**

He’d managed to get out from under the bushes and wriggle a bit closer.

If this Yeshua was worried about it, he was doing a good show of acting casual. He spent a lot of his time in prayer, which – to Crawly – seemed a bit pointless. With all the people in the world, it had to sound like the drone of the bees now. Had to be a bit mad if you thought anyone was still listening.

But then, he was a demon sitting ten paces away from a very pious holy man. If anyone was mad, he was pretty sure it wasn’t the human.

When Yeshua looked at him, he reared up defiantly. Definitely not showing fear. Ha. Didn’t before. Won’t this time. Whatcha gonna do? Make me fall? Whoops. Too late. Been there, done that, had the sulphur bath.

“It’s all right,” the man said, his voice dry from lack of water. “Don’t be afraid.”

Crawly stuck his tongue out at him.

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 4**

It was bloody hot out in the desert. There were no other humans for miles. No supplies. No provisions. The only time the man ate or drank anything was taking water from a small spring that broke through the rocks near his small encampment.

Crawly blinked slowly, watching as the man walking across the open ground in front of him. He was still as annoyingly calm, but his legs weren’t so steady when he rose from his sleeping place to go to the smooth rock that he sat on to pray.

Well, Crawly was meant to tempt, wasn’t he?

“You sure I can’t get you a sandwich or something?”

Yeshua looked over at him with a small smile. “No. Thank you.”

Crawly wrinkled his nose. “Probably don’t need me to do it anyway, do you?” He nodded at the rock beside his head. “Y’pray enough that you could probably just say ‘Oi! Rock! I want a falafel!’ and it’d turn into one for you.”

“Probably,” Yeshua agreed, sitting back down, cross-legged. “But man does not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.”

The snake sniffed. “Yeah. But I’m pretty sure the bread helps.”

He was fairly sure that a holy man wasn’t meant to laugh at that, but Yeshua did.

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 7**

“Shouldn’t you be going to the Synagogue about now?”

Yeshua opened his eyes to glance across at Crawly. “Hm?”

The demon had given up hiding in the bushes. Instead, he’d found a sunny spot directly opposite the place where the man sat. No reason not to be warm and comfortable while getting on with the job. He lifted his chin from his coils. “Shabbat, innit?”

“My Father will understand.”

Crawly snorted. Father. That was a new one. “You sure about that?”

Those ink-dark eyes met his. “Mankind will be tested. You know this.”

Crawly sank back down, a shiver running through him. He remembered those words from a time… before. The Almighty had spoken and they had listened, but oh, they hadn’t understood what it would mean and by the time he stopped to ask, it was already too late.

“What’s that got to do with you?” he demanded snippily.

Yeshua smiled. “Am I not a man?”

“Technically, yeah.” Crawly agreed grudgingly. God, he missed shoulders. It was easier to shrug with shoulders. “So?”

“Mankind,” he repeated in a voice that was and wasn’t the one Crawly remembered, “will be tested.” And then he smiled, creasing lines into his face. “And so I am tested.” He inclined his head. “You are my test.”

“Yay for me,” Crawly muttered, shoving his nose back into his coils. Wasn’t sulking if they couldn’t tell you weren’t just going to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 10**

Sometimes, you needed hands.

Especially when you had an itch right between the shoulders you didn’t have.

Crawly thought Yeshua was still asleep. He looked like he was, but Crawly wasn’t about to _Look_ closer for fear of melting his eyeballs right out of his head. He stretched out his body, letting bones expand and limbs emerge and even his wings unfolded, which was a good thing because that was exactly where the itch was.

The demon twisted up his arm to prod between his shoulder blades when he became very aware that Yeshua was not – in fact – asleep.  

He was watching with apparently interest.

“You have wings.”

Crawly self-consciously snapped them shut. “Yeah, and? Was an angel, wasn’t I? We’ve all got them.”

“I’ve never seen them before.”

Crawly snorted – a lot easier with a proper nose, definitely more resonance. “Obviously.”

“You _all_ have them?”

The demon made a face. “You’re the holy man. I thought…” He waved vaguely skywards. “Aren’t you given divine insight into everything?”

Yeshua laid one foot flat on the ground, propping his arm on his upraised knee. “I know enough, but I don’t think I know everything. Not yet. What I need to know, I know. What I do not need to know, I do not until the time is right.”

“Oh.” The demon cocked his head, looking at him. “Must be annoying.”

Yeshua raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“You’ve got this whole galactic font of information you could get access to, but you can’t ‘until the time is right’? You just have to muddle through?”

Yeshua smiled at him. “Acquire wisdom, acquire understanding; do not forget, and do not turn away from the words of my mouth.”

Crawly blinked at him. “Did you just memorise the book to show off?”

The man lifted his shoulder and there was a glint of humour in his eyes. “As I said, what I need to know, I know.”

Despite himself, Crawly had to hide a grin.

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 13**

“What’s your name?”

Crawly blinked at the sky in confusion. He was lying on his back, tracing the patterns of the stars, when the man spoke. He twisted to look over at the human, who was sitting by a small campfire. “Eh?”

“Your name.” Yeshua glanced over at him.

Crawly shrugged. “Kind of expected you to call me demon, to be honest.”

By the dancing firelight, the man’s thin face looked even thinner. “That is what you are. I don’t believe that’s who you are.”

Crawly rolled back to his back, looking up at the sky. “And you know that, do you? You needed to know and so you know that?”

“No.”

Despite himself, he looked back over at the man. “No?”

Yeshua gazed at him across the flames. “You offered me food when I hungered. You laughed. You listened.”

“I’m _working_ ,” Crawly said, trying to ignore the worried twist in his chest. “Tempting you, aren’t I? Got to make you like me. Got to make you believe me.”

The man smiled sadly. “As you say.” He poked at the fire with a length of stick. “Will you give me your name?”

“Why?” Crawly breathed, forcing himself to keep looking overhead at the clear, brilliant sky. It had been going so smoothly as well. Why did he want to know? Why did he care? For revenge, he had no doubt. So when he returned to his Father, he would know exactly who to report and the Almighty would try and find something worse than the Fall.

“Why not?” Yeshua murmured.

Some time later, the man was asleep, snoring quietly, when Crawly realised that Yeshua didn’t even need to ask. He was a demon, Yeshua was his victim. He didn’t _need_ to ask. He chose to.

Crawly glanced over.

Despite the mild night, the man was curled tightly in on himself, shivering. The fire had burned low and was almost out.

Crawly sighed, unfolding from the ground, and went across to add some more sticks to the embers. He reached over and drew Yeshua’s robe more closely around his shoulders, watching as the man’s shudders eased.

“This doesn’t mean I like you,” he muttered, returning to his own spot on the far side of the fire.

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 16**

“Crawly.”

Yeshua had only just woken up. He was definitely looking the worse for wear, although Crawly noticed – from the corner of his eye – that the man did smile when he noticed the cup of water beside his sleeping place. “Mm?”

“My name.” Crawly was sketching in the coarse sand with a stick. “It’s Crawly.”

Clay scraped against stone as Yeshua picked up the cup. It would – as usual – be his only drink of the day. Man was stubborn as sin.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Don’t.” Crawly prodded moodily at the sand. “Not for the cup.”

“For your name then.”

Crawly tilted his head to look over at the man. Not many people had bothered asking him for it. He’d almost forgotten how it felt to willingly offer it. And of all the people, it was some religious nut he’d probably never see again once the job was done.

Said religious nut was sitting up now, hands cradling the cup to his lips, but his robe was hanging looser by the day.

“You sure you don’t want me to nip out and get you something to eat?” Crawly inquired. “You’re not going to do much good to anyone if you keel over.”

Dark eyes met his. “You’ve asked before. You know my answer.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, but thought a fortnight in the desert might have knocked some common sense into you.” He shook his head. “Forlorn hope, that.”

Yeshua’s lips twitched tiredly.

“I’m just saying,” Crawly continued, “that it doesn’t have to be anything big. Could get you some of that mushy cheese. The kind that’s so runny you could pretend it’s water. It’s not breaking your fast if you drink it.”

“No. Thank you.”

“Or some wine?” Crawly searched the ever-thinner face hopefully. “S’only water putting on a show, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“What about–”

“Crawly.” There was a soft resonance in the way he said Crawly’s name, a thrum that went right down to Crawly’s bones and stilled his tongue like a rock. He both wanted and never wanted to hear his name spoken like that again. “Thank you for your kindness, but no.”

“No,” Crawly echoed, his mouth drier than Yeshua’s. “Right. Got it.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 17**

The stars were out when Yeshua made a curious sound.

Crawly peered over at him. “Hm?”

“Your name.”

Crawly cocked his head, peering over the flames. “What about it?”

“It’s not– is it because you were a snake? Because you…” The holy man gave a vague, exhausted wiggle of his hand.

“No!” Crawly exclaimed indignantly, hoping his flush wasn’t too visible by the firelight. “It– I– there’s a very good reason for it! And it’s– well, I’m not telling you. I’m offended! That’s what I am! I’m offended you’d think that!”

“Ah.” Yeshua laid his head back down, smiling as a man who has acquired knowledge.

“Oh, shut up,” Crawly grumbled, rolling onto his other side, showing his alleged victim his back.

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 19**

“Aren’t you bored?”

Yeshua opened one eye. “No.”

“Oh, you _must_ be.” Crawly paced back and forth across the small clearing that they’d been sharing for almost three weeks. “You know what we could do? We could go south. Out of Galilee. I’ve heard they’ve got some pretty wild stuff in Caesarea.”

Yeshua shook his head gently. “When I leave this place, I will see all I need to see.”

“You know,” Crawly said grumpily, “you’re going to annoy people if you keep up the cryptic mumbo jumbo.” He dropped into a crouch in front of the man. “So where are you going to go when you see all you need to see?”

The dark eyes met his, fathomless as the sea. “When the time comes, I will go to Jerusalem.”

“Jerusalem?” Crawly snorted. “Is that all?” He grabbed Yeshua by the arm, transporting them a split-second before he remembered exactly who he was grabbing. Wasn’t often he panicked mid-transit and when they emerged into bright daylight, he staggered back a step and fell onto his arse.

“Bugger…” he panted, bracing shaking hands on the stone beneath him, then yelping as heat pricked up through his hands.

Yeshua sighed. “We should return.”

“Yeah…” His heart was racing like a startled hare and on top of everything, the world around him was pulsing with divine energy. “Maybe in a minute.”

Yeshua sat down beside him. “Maybe next time, you listen to me?”

“Mm.” Crawly squinted around. “Did it though, didn’t I?” He waved a hand out over the city that spread below them. They were on the roof of a building that hummed with ancient power. Crawly’s body was tingling uncomfortably, but not like he could really do anything until his brain stopped flailing. “Look at that. Jerusalem.”

Yeshua gazed out at it, his calm features tensing. “Jerusalem,” he echoed quietly. He looked at Crawly. “You’re in pain.”

Crawly waved a hand dismissively, even if the roof of the temple was a stupid place to have landed them. “M’fine.” He peered down into the courtyard far below. “Y’know, bet you could jump down there with me. Bet She’d send a bunch of angels to hold out a safety net and catch us both.” He paused, considering it. “Or you at least. If you asked nicely.”

Yeshua raised his eyebrows at him. “You recall I memorised the book?”

Crawly winced, shifting from buttock to buttock. “Did I just earn another quote?”

“Do not test the Lord your God.”

Crawly grimaced. “Thought that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Testing? Why I’m stuck with you.” he said, making a face.

“You wanted to test if angels would be sent to catch me. That’s not testing me. _That_ is testing God.”

“Pfft.” Crawly shook his head, hair flying. “Semantics.” He held out a shaking hand to Yeshua. “You sure you want to go back?”

The man’s palm was warm and rough against his. “Yes.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 24**

“Why are you even here?”

“What do you mean?”

Crawly shrugged as much as he could, lying on his back in the sand. He had his hands tucked under his head as he watched the wisps of pale cloud smear across the sky. “Not… here-here. In the desert, I mean. On earth. Why are you – whatever you are – on earth?”

Yeshua was quiet for a long time. “You don’t know?”

Crawly screwed up his face. “Never asked,” he admitted. “Got my job. Came to do it.”

“You could say I’m doing the same thing.”

Crawly tilted his head to look at the man. Yeshua was sitting in his sleeping place. He didn’t walk around so much now. His hands were bordering on skeletal in his lap. “This is your job?” He made a face. “Can’t say I think much of it, sitting in a desert boring me to death.”

One side of Yeshua’s mouth turned up. “This is the easy part.”

“Oi!”

Yeshua raised a hand. “You have been testing me very well, oh great serpent.”

“Now you’re just being patronising,” Crawly grumbled. He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “So what _is_ your job? I mean, I know my lot aren’t too happy that you’re about, but…” He shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t think they know how to be happy about anything at this point.”

“You’ll learn soon enough.”

“Well… that isn’t at all ominous.”

Yeshua inclined his head. “It will be as it was written.”

Written, eh?

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 28**

“Ow!”

Crawly gave the human another kick. “You idiot!”

Yeshua raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “What is it?”

“Jerusalem! Big plans! My Father!” Crawley waved the rolled-up scroll he was holding in his leather-wrapped hand. “Don’t tell me you think you’re some kind of…” He trailed off, staring down at the man he had just woken.

Yeshua sat up, rubbing his ribs reproachfully. “You read?”

Crawly gestured to his bloodied eyes. “Well, you weren’t about to tell me, were you?” He made a sound of disgust and tossed the scroll into Yeshua’s lap, where it unravelled from its tightly wound centre. “You said you came here with a job to do.”

“I did.” Yeshua laid a hand over the scroll.

Crawly shook his head. “No. No!” He jabbed a finger at the scroll. “If you convince yourself that everything they say is about you, you know how it ends!”

Yeshua nodded. “I do.”

The demon felt like the air had been crushed from his lungs. “You’ll _die_.” He stared at the human in disbelief. “You’ll die because you think you’re the person they were talking about hundreds of years ago? Are you insane?!”

The man carefully rolled the scroll back up and closed his hands around it. “Do you think I’m insane?”

“Right now? I’m starting to!” Crawly crouched down, searching the man’s face. “D’you want to die? Is that what this is? Because just say the word and I can smack your head in with one of those rocks. Saves you time. Gets it over with.”

Yeshua gazed at him. Crawly wasn’t sure if he was so placid because he was barely more than bones and skin now or because that hot holy fire was burning away everything else. “Dust I am and to dust I will return.”

“Don’t!” Crawly exclaimed. “Don’t! They’re… words! They’re just _words_!”

“Words have power.” Yeshua’s eyes were boring into his. “Demon. Serpent.”

“Not the same!” Crawly snapped. He pushed his fingers through his hair, swaying from side to side. “How do you know you are… that? The… whatever the hell you think you are?”

“How do you know I’m not?”

Crawly stared at him. “You really believe it?”

“Do you care?”

No, he told himself as he turned and stormed away. No, he insisted, as he folded into himself and slithered into the heat of the desert. No.

 

* * *

 

 

**Day 37**

“Still alive, then?”

Yeshua looked up with a smile. “I didn’t think I would see you again.”

Crawly shrugged, arms folded over his chest. “Someone had to come and check if you’d finished starving yourself out here.”

The man shook his head. “Not yet.”

Crawly dropped down to squat on his toes, folding his arms on his knees. “I’m not going to change your mind, am I?”

“You knew that when you came.”

“Eh.” He lifted one shoulder. “Sometimes holy people aren’t as resolved as they like to think.” He rocked from toes to heels and back. “Then some of them are as daft as you.”

“And still you came back? Knowing you won’t stop me?”

Crawly propped his chin on his arms. “Might as well. Downstairs wanted me to tempt you, so can’t blame me for trying. Got to do the job, eh?”

Yeshua inclined his head. “Then do what you must.”

There was a big difference between must and want.

Crawly unfurled one hand and with a gesture, changed the world around them. Only visions, only illusions, but real enough to touch and taste and smell. White stone sprouted around them, vast buildings, cobbled streets, people, litters, noise and chaos.

“Rome,” he murmured.

Yeshua stared around, his bloodshot eyes wide. “Why show me this?”

“What you’re going to miss,” Crawly said quietly, then moved his hand again. Alexandria first, with its gleaming lighthouse, then further afield. The red sandstone of Arabia Petraea, the vast sprawling city of Pataliputra, even as far as the palaces of Chang’an.

City after city, country after country, field and mountain, valley and ocean. All things a young man from Galilee was never likely to see. People, places, enough to give him a lifetime of memories for the little time he had left.

As he let the visions fade and the heat of the desert wrapped around them again, far later in the day than it had been, he tucked his hand back under his arm.

“Could be yours, you know,” he said, propping his chin back on his arms. “All you have to do is ask and I’ll take you to any one of them you fancy. All of them if you want. All you have to do is live and ask me.”

“It is written–”

Crawly groaned into his arms, rocking back and forth.

“It is written,” Yeshua repeated quietly, “Worship the Lord your God and serve only him.”

“Not asking you to serve me!”

Yeshua nodded. “You know what you’re asking.”

Crawly nodded unhappily. “And I know what the answer is.” He searched Yeshua’s face. “How long?”

Yeshua shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Nothing in your little book?” He wanted to sound angry, wanted to be angry, but instead, he just felt tired.

“You’ll hear of it.”

Crawly unfolded with a shudder, straightening up. “I hope I don’t.” He glanced around, a scent whispering on the air. Celestial. Something way above his paygrade. “You know you can call on me if you change your mind.”

The man gazed up at him with that same small, sad smile. “And you know that I won’t.” He raised a hand, half-farewell, half-benediction. “Your temptations are done. Off with you… demon.”

“Yeah.” He fidgeted with his belt. “Good luck.”

Yeshua bowed his head. “And to you, Crawly.”

Crawly recoiled back a step, then turned on his heel and fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I blame this entire thing on the fact that DT has Crowley fixing his eyes on the cross and barely even looks away to speak to Aziraphale.
> 
> Historical notes: Taken from the New Testament - Gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke.


	12. 33AD - Jerusalem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With the Crucifixion

The sky was black, even though it was the middle of the afternoon.

Crowley took a hesitant step forward, then another.

“Where are you going?”

Oh. Right. The angel.

“Something I need to do,” she managed to say around the lump in her throat.

She walked forward unsteadily on legs that were still trembling like the earth had only moments earlier. The women – his disciples, Crowley supposed – were closer to the foot of the cross now. The older one was probably his mother. She had stood, rooted to the spot, for all six hours, watching her boy up there.

He hadn’t changed much in the three years since Crowley had tempted him in the desert. Longest month he’d ever had, that. There were stubborn people and then there was Yeshua the Nazarene, who had rejected every worldly temptation, laughed at Crowley’s jokes and called him by his name like an equal.

Crowley had hoped the lad’s devoutness would burn out of him. That he wouldn’t keep down the path he’d convinced himself he was on. He read too much, that was the trouble. He’d read the old books and decided that he was obviously the one they were talking about and that was a very quick way to a very early grave.

And it had happened exactly as Crowley had dreaded.

Gouged, bloody, beaten, then hung up like a slab of meat to slowly die in the heat.

One of the younger ones turned when Crowley drew near. She had dust in her hair, her eyes wet and red.

Crowley reached up, her hand trembling, and touched the man’s bloodied feet. The cruel spike of a nail jutted out through his shattered heels despite the best efforts of the women to pull it free. “Let me try,” she whispered.

It was probably a bad idea, doing a miracle there and then, but she didn’t care. The nail tore free with a splash of blood and bone fragments that stung on her skin. Holier already, she thought, wrapping her hand around the nail and squeezing until her skin blistered. Whatever he was.

Either way, he was definitely dead.

Crowley retreated, looking up at the body that had once been the man.

“Idiot,” she breathed in a language no humans could understand, trying to ignore the burning in her eyes as she turned and walked away.

 

________________________

 

It took Aziraphale several hours to find Crawly.

Jerusalem was in chaos. No wonder, given the earthquake that had shaken them until they rattled. Some people were still milling in the streets in distress, and he heard mutters that there had been damage in the temple, that the Holy of Holies had been revealed.

None of that really mattered, when he knew the demon was still abroad.

When he eventually found her, Crawly was sitting on the ground outside of an inn, curled around an empty pitcher, her headscarf drawn almost completely over her face. She looked awful and Aziraphale suspected it wasn’t purely because of the wine.

He prodded her with his foot. “Crawl–”

Golden eyes blazed up at him. “S’Crowley,” she hissed. “My name. Don’t ever call me _that_. Not ever. Not for you.”

Aziraphale recoiled a step, startled. “Oh. O-of course. I forgot.”

She pulled her legs up against her chest, cradling the pitcher between them, her feet scuffing marks in the sand. She had something gripped in her hand and Aziraphale frowned as something dripped between her fingers.

“Are you bleeding?” he demanded, crouching down beside her.

Crowley stared at him, then at her hand. He saw a flicker of emotions and pain on her face, then she shoved her hand into the tangle of her robe, out of sight. “S’nothing.”

“You’re hurt,” Aziraphale said, certain of it now. He caught her wrist gently. “Let me help.”

The demon flapped her arm, trying to shake him away, but in doing so, let go of whatever she’d been clinging on to. It clattered on the flagstones beside her and Aziraphale looked down. His heart felt like a giant hand had squeezed it. Crowley hastily snatched it back up again, hissing in pain as she curled her fingers around it.

“That’s a nail,” Aziraphale said blankly.

Golden eyes stared at him. “So? M’building a table.” She laughed too sharply. “Got it from a carpnen– cartpe– table-maker.” She folded in on herself, tucking her hand out of sight under her headscarf.

“Crowley…”

The demon shoved at him, pushing him away with her other hand. “Go ‘way!”

Aziraphale sank onto his knees beside the demon. “You’ll hurt yourself, carrying something like that around.” Even from a distance, he had felt the ebb and flow of holiness around the man who had been crucified. It wasn’t clear why, but it reminded Aziraphale – oddly – of a man in the Ganges valley centuries earlier. Something significant. Someone holy.

“S’mine,” the demon mumbled sullenly, shrinking back against the wall. “Needed it. Needed some’ing.”

Evidence, Aziraphale thought sadly. No doubt some proof for his masters below that some terrible deed had been done. It gave him pause, though, remembering that this particular deed had been guided by the hands of Heaven.

He groped about in the pouch at his waist, fishing out the linen square he had taken to carrying with him. It was very useful, especially in a place where almost every food had to be eaten with one’s fingers. “Here,” he said, unfolding it and hastily miracling some of the stains away. “At least wrap it in this to keep it from hurting you.”

The demon’s glassy eyes peered suspiciously at the cloth. “Why?”

Aziraphale forced a brittle smile. “I thought I might take the young man’s advice,” he said. When those golden eyes lifted to his face, narrowed in confusion, he added, “Be kind.”

Crowley stared at him for a few seconds, then turned her face away, burrowing her nose into the headscarf. She was shaking, but she yanked her hand out of its hiding place and opened her fingers. The skin was cracked and burned, seeping with dark blood.

Aziraphale winced in sympathy.

The nail itself was a nasty piece of work, more than a handspan long and easily as thick as his thumb. He could see fragments of bone caught in the metal and hastily scooped it up in the cloth, trying not to think of the pain it had inflicted.

“There we go,” he said, wrapping it neatly several times and ignoring the dark stains soaking through the cloth. “That should help at least.” He glanced at Crowley’s limp hand, lying in her lap. “Do– is there anything I can do to help? With your hand?”

The demon shook her head, crooking her bloody fingers. “Gimme.”

Reluctantly, Aziraphale laid the cloth-wrapped bundle back in her wounded hand. “A drink, then?”

Crowley shook her head. “Go ‘way,” she repeated, quieter now.

The angel nodded, getting back to his feet and brushing dust from his robe. It was all too clear that he was unwelcome, even if he couldn’t help but feel she needed company. “Good evening, Crowley.”

On the ground, the demon curled in on herself even more, turning to the wall.

He watched her in silence for a few seconds, then turned and unhappily walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes - Because it bothered me, I adjusted the position of the nail through the feet to the historically-correct position in this fic. The nails went between the bones of the wrist and through the heel because the middle of hands/feet are too fragile and the nail would tear free too easily. This is your gory history lesson of the day. 
> 
> Also, as with the previous chapter, whether Yeshua is human or divine is entirely up to your belief system, but nothing can change the fact he was a very influential holy man and that is why his blood and bone affects Crowley the way it does. However, I included the sky going dark and the gospel declaration about an earthquake, because natural disasters and bad weather may or may not be divine too.
> 
> Regarding Crowley's gender, we have had confirmation from Neil Gaiman that Crowley is presenting as female at the crucifixion, which is why I have changed his gender marker in this episode, as I did in my Nanny Ashtoreth fic. 
> 
> And lastly, should you wish to find out what I'm up to, [I'm on tumblr](https://amuseoffyre.tumblr.com/) :)


	13. 33AD - Outside Jerusalem - Sunday Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With the BEHOLDing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I keep coming back to this era and story. That's what 18 years of enforced Church'll do to your brain.

“What in Heaven’s name are you doing?”

Crowley squinted over her shoulder in the dark. “Nothing.”

The bloody angel was standing there, all agog. Good word, agog. Plenty to gog at. Gogging about. “I don’t believe that,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. He looked down at the two Roman guards in a heap on the ground. Only sleeping. Wouldn’t even notice a thing. “Don’t make me ask again.”

Crowley sniffed, then turned around and put her back against the bloody stone, pushing it. The edges dug in between her shoulder blades, but at least this time, it moved. Sort of. A bit. And then moved back. She said a rude word.

“Crawly!” The angel stepped closer and grabbed her arm. “Wasn’t the nail enough?”

“S’Crowley!” She flapped her hands. “Geroff.”

“Oh good Lord…” Aziraphale sighed like an annoyed mum. Not like… not like his mum. Not when she stood and watched and couldn’t do anything but be there for him. “You’re still drunk, aren’t you?”

Crowley scowled at him, trying very, very hard not to sway on the spot. “None your business.” She turned and shoved her shoulder against the stone again. Stupid damn thing had to move. Had to. Needed to make a disappearing act. Give the stupid humans something to go ‘Oooh!’ over. Piss off the stupid tin cans of the Roman legions.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale pulled her back. “Leave the poor man to rest in peace!”

“No!” Crowley squirmed against his grip. “Need to take him!”

“Why?!” Aziraphale demanded, tightening his hold. Angel was strong. S’pose he had to be. Guardian of Eden, he was. Not very good at it, but still like trying to wrestle an octopus. Octopus strong as a tank. Octo-tank?

“Cos!”

“That’s not an answer!”

“Cos!” Crowley repeated, wrenching and wriggling and squirming and finally going all floppy in the angel’s grip. “Cos…”

“Because _what_?” Aziraphale sounded grumpy.

Crowley stared down at the groove where the stone rested over the entrance to the tomb. Shouldn’t have been so bloody hard to move it. Just a rock. Not like humans hadn’t put it there. How hard could it be to get it out the way?

“He _believed_ ,” Crowley said finally, a whisper. “An’ if they come an’ he’s gone, maybe they’ll… maybe it might not have been for nothing? Maybe they’ll think he was…. He did….” She shrugged, all floppy limbs. “Wanna take him. Hide him. Somewhere safe.”

Aziraphale’s arms went all loose and he made a small sound like ‘oh’.

Crowley rubbed her nose on the back of her hand. “S’stupid.”

“No,” Aziraphale said very carefully and gentle, like Crowley was a scared lamb that’d run off.  “No, I understand. A last kindness for the poor fellow.”

Crowley sniffed hard. “Not kind. Stupid.” He peered at the angel. “Why’re you here anyway?”

The angel’s smile was sad. “A blessing,” he said. “The women, his followers, they’ll be coming to anoint him now that Shabbat is over.” He looked sideways. East, Crowley supposed. Sky was turning custard yellow over that way. Morning. Should’ve come earlier. Angel looked back at Crowley. “I know you have the best of intentions, my dear fellow, but–”

But they were coming. But she was too late. But voices were coming closer and he recognised several of them.

“Oh bugger,” she yelped. “Angel! They know me! They saw me! There! By the cross!”

The angel’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “So they won’t be surprised to see you here, then.”

“Not like…” Crowley waved wildly to her ripped dress, the blood and muck all over it. Sleeping in the gutter did that to a person. And now bits of stone and all and she hadn’t done anything useful or helpful or anything and she gave a stupid useless whine, plopping her face in her hands. “I just wanted– I bugger up _everything_!”

Warm hands grasped his shoulders. “Stand back,” Aziraphale said urgently.

Crowley stumbled, tripping and landing right on the middle of one of the Romans, who groaned and blinked.

Stone grumbled on stone. Aziraphale’s face was all pink with effort, but it moved. It all moved and the tomb was open and Crowley just had to get up and–

“What–?!?”

Crowley hissed in panic. Mary, the mum, the brave little thing, didn’t cry out, not the whole time, not until it was done, and then she had sobbed and sobbed and sobbed and Crowley didn’t– Crowley couldn’t–

White wings spread, hiding Crowley from them, shining and dazzling as the sun came over the edge of the world. “He is not here,” Aziraphale’s voice rang out like a bell. Crowley felt it all the way down to her bones, edged with miracles and divine influence, searing away what was left of her hangover. For a human, it was probably even worse. “He is risen!”

One of the Romans – the one Crowley was sitting on – gave a girly scream and fainted.

The women – the mother and the followers – lit up like Saints, belief dancing through them like fire, and Crowley peeked around Aziraphale’s wing as they turned and hurried back the way they came, talking urgently and excitedly.

Crowley struggled back to his feet. “What did you _do_?”

The angel folded in his wings self-consciously, twisting his hands anxiously together. “Er. I– do you think that was a bit much?”

“A bit?” Crowley echoed, gesturing after the women. “That was practically a multiple conversion!”

“I was trying to distract them!” Aziraphale wailed.

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Crowley exhaled, shuddering. “A bit much, he says.”

Aziraphale sheepishly fiddled with his ring. “Well, now you can…” He waved vaguely towards the tomb. “You know. Take care of things. Secret and safe and what have you.”

“Suppose I can.” Crowley warily edged around him, then paused. “Why _did_ you do that?”

Aziraphale shrugged, staring at his toes. “Technically, it qualifies as a blessing. And they didn’t notice you, did they?”

Technically. Too bloody good at technically, that angel.

“Right,” the demon said, then bent and ducked into the tomb.

And then she bent and ducked back out.

“Angel,” she said, very, very carefully. “You know you told them he wasn’t here because he was risen?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t suppose there’s any chance their belief that he was gone would make it true?”

Aziraphale frowned. “No. Why would it do that?”

Crowley, feeling more than a little off – backwash from a full-blown angelic conversion would do that to a demon – jerked her thumb towards the tomb. “Funny thing,” she said. “It’s empty.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he squeezed passed Crowley to duck into the tomb too. Not much point really. Tiny room. Not exactly like there was a hidden door at the back or enough space to swing a cat or anything.

“Where is he?” he demanded as he popped back out into the morning light.

“How should I know?” Crowley demanded. “Last I checked, they chucked him in there!”

“Maybe the Romans took him?” Aziraphale suggested.

“And stationed guards on an empty tomb? Come off it!”

“Well, if they knew it was empty…”

Crowley shook her head. “No! I–” She flushed. “I kept an eye on it.” She jabbed Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Had to be you. You and your whoooooo angel of the Lord bollocks! You went and…” She flapped her hands all… angelically. “You’ve… somethinged him!”

“ _Somethinged_?” Aziraphale exclaimed indignantly. “If anyone’s going to… something anyone, it’s you!”

Crowley stared at him, then back at the empty tomb. It had the shape of a hell of a lot of trouble in the near and the distant future. “I wasn’t here,” she said at once. “No one saw me. No one saw _anything_. You… well, you can take credit on this one. However it pans out. Mystical disappearances, angel visions and stuff.”

“Crowley!”

The demon backed away a couple of steps. “Nice miracle, by the way. Thorough.” And she turned, hiking up her robes, and bolted off, bouncing off the bellies of the two supine Romans as she went. “Bye, angel!”

“Damn it, Crowley!” Aziraphale’s yell echoed after her.

 

 


	14. 370AD – Thagaste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With Two Saints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another round of Crowley and a Significant Religious Figure because I find it hilarious ;)
> 
> Also worth noting that I've finally got a full chapter set in north Africa! At last! I really am lacking terribly in African scenes. Will have to sort that out soon. Plus technically, I cheated because it's still Roman Empire at this point, in what is now Algeria.

The crescent moon was high in the star-smeared sky and the streets were deserted.

The silence was broken by a crash of pottery, echoed by raucous laughter.

“Out!”

A door opened onto the street, a slice of lamplight pouring out onto the pale flagstones. Four young men piled out through the doorway, a tangle of brown, olive and pale limbs, all of them flushed with drink and mirth.

“You lose valuable customers, Gaius!” One of the young men bellowed, swaying where he stood. He considered the clay cup in his hand, then hurled it to explode on the doorframe, dregs of wine dripping down the pale stone. His friends burst into fits of laughter.

The innkeeper appeared in the doorway, face black as thunder. “You son of a sow!”

The young man clasped his hand proudly to his chest. “And the finest sow in all Thagaste she is too! Unlike yours!”

When the innkeeper stormed towards them, cudgel in his hand, the young man’s friends tugged him, still jeering, and they reeled off down the street.

From the shadow of an insula doorway, Crowley watched them, grinning. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy his work, but it didn’t hurt when it took no effort at all and young Augustinus of house Aurelius was about to give him the easiest night of work imaginable.

He slipped out onto the silver-painted flagstones, winding his way after them as the four boys tottered onwards, singing filthy songs about some random woman’s breasts.

“What now?” The red-haired lad in the group demanded, leaning heavily into Augustinus’s side.

Augustinus threw his arms wide, his friend staggering. “More wine!”

“No more taverns,” the olive-skinned boy complained.

Augustinus’s dark face creased in annoyance. “Futuo!” He swung around. “My house has wine. We can get wine there.”

Crowley meandered after them. “Why limit it to your house?” he asked the young man as they wandered out of the town and towards the house of the Aurelius family. He felt the prickle of speculation in the lad, barely more than a boy. “It’s not like anyone could stop you, is it?”

“We could have grapes,” the fourth of their group said. He was a round-face boy, pink-cheeked. “Can we have grapes?”

The vineyards spread across the fields flanking the road, leaves and fruit shining in the moonlight. Augustinus considered them. “They’re not ripe yet.” He waved grandly. “But one day, we will make the best wine with them.”

“Fah.” The red-head snorted. “Not wine yet.”

Crowley glanced around, then chuckled to himself. Sometimes, the classic temptations were the best. “What about that?” He nudged Augustinus’s attention to the wall on the other side of the road. A tree was visible over the lip of the wall. “Looks ripe to me.”

The young man turned, looking up.

The leaves rustled in the warm evening breeze, whispering around the plump swells of fruit that hung heavily on the branches. It wasn’t quite the lush red of the apples of Eden, but you worked with whatever material you had and right now, Crowley had pears.

“Bet they’d hate if you took them.” He coiled around the boy, his voice low and enticing. “Can you imagine the look on his face? And if you’re sneaky, he’ll never know it was you.”

Augustinus’s dark eyes glittered. “We could have pears, Marcus.”

The round-faced boy squinted at him. “From a vineyard?”

Augustinus answered by veering over towards the wall. “Pears,” he replied, waving upwards.

The trio exchanged hazy, drink-addled looks. “But… but that’s not your house,” Rufus said, swaying gently.

“So?” Crowley prompted with a serpent smile. “Pompous old man. Why should he tell you what to do?” He leaned a hair’s breadth closer. “Wouldn’t it be _fun_?”

“It’s probably bad,” Marcus added, though he was staring wistfully up at the pears.

“So? I think we should have pears!” Augustinus laughed, groping for the cracks between the rocks of the wall, hauling himself unsteadily upwards. His sandaled feet skittered on the stone and two of his friends hurried forward, boosting him up, encouraged by his boldness.

It wasn’t the highest wall in the world, but for a sixteen year old several jugs into his cups, it probably felt like scaling Everest. Crowley watched as he finally flopped, hanging like a folded cloth, over the top of the wall, his legs dangling down.

“Can you get them?” Rufus demanded in what he must have assumed was a whisper.

“Ngh.” Augustinus’s legs kicked feebly and there was the wet sound of someone being sick on the far side of the wall.

“Eugh! Augustinus!”

“Missed the pears!” The boy’s voice floated back, sounding considerably damper. It took him a few more minutes and some kicking and flailing to haul himself up onto the wall. He swung one leg over and sat, swaying in the moonlight.

“Where are the pears?” Marcus demanded petulantly. “I want one!”

Augustinus peered down at his friend, then reached out and grabbed a pear, tugging it off the branch. He considered it solemnly, then twisted on the wall and lobbed it straight at Marcus’s head, with surprisingly good aim for someone who was almost cross-eyed with drink.

“Ow!”

“You wanted it!” Augustinus crowed. He leaned down, offering his hand to Rufus. “Come on. There are too many for me to get on my own.”

His friend reached up and grabbed his wrist, scrambling up the wall to join him. “How many are we taking?”

Augustinus grinned, a flash of brilliant white in his dark face. “All of them.”

Crowley chuckled, leaning back to watch as one little temptation blossomed, turning four rude young men into thieves and vandals.

 

__________________________________

 

It was a lovely night, but one wouldn’t have thought so by the state of the poor woman, kneeling before the makeshift altar.

The beads of her rosary rattled through her fingers, her eyes closed, tears spilling down her cheeks as she recited her prayers, the beacon of her faith glowing fiercely. She was well-reputed already for her piety, but Heaven had far greater things in mind for her.

Aziraphale approached, reaching out to lay his hand lightly upon her head.

The blessing cast a divine glow around her and her prayers stuttered, almost as if she felt it. Her tears dried and a rapturous smile spread across her handsome dark-skinned face. Her name would be remembered, her piety and faith rewarded.

One day, eventually, she would be a Saint.

Aziraphale smiled, watching her, the bliss of the blessing washing away a little of her fear and grief. The seeds were there already. He had just offered them a little light to help them grow.

Silently, he withdrew from the house, slipping unseen by the other humans. Most of them were asleep, but there was a guard sitting at the door, a lamp beside him and a surly look on his face. Not keeping dangers out, Aziraphale realised, but waiting for someone.

Technically, he could have carried himself back to the centre of the town on a whim, but it really was a very lovely night. The stars speckled the sky, barely a cloud in sight to obscure them, and the air was warm and clear.

“No harm in walking a little,” he murmured, as he slipped through the gate and set off down the shining silver road that led back into Thagaste.

Around him, the landscape rolled in gentle slopes, the hillsides woven with vines. It was a shame it was too early in the season. The budding clusters of grapes were only small, but there was promise of a generous harvest. He scanned the broad expanse of the fields. A few weeks more, and if he happened to pass by in time to try them while bringing another blessing or–

Or Crowley?

Just a little way to the side of reality, the demon was sitting on a rock beside the road, sprawled back and gazing up at the sky.

“Coo-ee! Crowley!”

Crowley whipped around, momentary panic written on his face. He spotted Aziraphale and huffed with relief, a grin curling his lips. “Angel!” He sat up a little straighter on the rock. “What brings you all the way out here?”

Aziraphale waved a hand in the direction of the Aurelius house. “Just a blessing. You?”

“Not much.” Crowley shrugged expressively, rucking up his toga – it was awfully like the one he wore in Rome, which seemed very inconvenient so far out in the empire. Aziraphale had elected a simpler tunic, though he added a rather nice cape. It was very stylish, he thought.

“What do you mean not much?” he inquired.

The demon waved a hand dismissively. “You know. Temptation here, temptation there.” He flashed his widest grin. “Maybe I was just following you around to see what damage I could do when you were finished?”

Aziraphale gave him a mostly patient look. “Oh, _really_. You’re doing no such thing. I saw you stargazing.”

Crowley made a face at him. “S’not a crime.”

“Well, no.” The angel fiddled with his fingers. “Are you heading back into the–”

A stifled but very human grunt made him turn, puzzled.

As far as he could see, there was no one but him and Crowley.

“What do you suppose…” He looked back at the demon, who was staring up at the high wall behind him. Aziraphale followed his line of sight and spotted a pair of bony brown hands appear over the top of a wall on the opposite side of the road. The hands were followed by a black-haired, dark-eyed face and Aziraphale stared in dismay. Oh he _knew_ that little one. Just as he’d visited Monica before, he had seen the boy too. “Oh, _Crowley_ , you didn’t!”

“Didn’t what?” Crowley said, looking wounded. “Just because some daft human is climbing walls in the middle of the night doesn’t mean it’s anything to do with me.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to comment, but above them, the head and shoulders tipped over the top of the wall, then the young man gave an alarmed yelp as the brick he was leaning on gave way and he dropped – headfirst – towards the rocky ground.

Aziraphale’s hand moved before he could think, cushioning the impact and saving the boy from a nasty head injury. “Oh my dear!” He brushed by Crowley, bustling towards the boy. “Are you all right? That was quite a tumble.”

The young man rubbed his bruised head and squinted up at him. “OH HELLO GOOD MAN! IT IS VERY LATE FOR YOU TO BE ABOUT! I DID NOT EXPECT TO SEE YOU.”

Aziraphale blinked. Perhaps he hadn’t been fast enough. “There’s no need to shout, dear boy,” he said, gently helping the young man to his feet. He glanced anxiously at Crowley, who was muffling laughter in his hand. “It’s not funny, Crowley! He might have hurt himself!”

“He’s a teenager, angel,” Crowley choked out. “S’what they do. Bloody stupid, reckless things. Might have knocked some sense into him.”

The angel glowered at him. “You are _such_ a terrible person.”

Young Augustinus swayed against his hands and Aziraphale recognised the scent of more than one kind of wine. No wonder his blessed mother was praying again, if he had been out and misbehaving. Honestly, sometimes it made you wonder if all the work was going to be worth it in the long run. Free will made no guarantees, even for one elected for divine influence. “Ah. A little too much to drink?”

Augustinus gave him the look of a young man very resolutely sure that he did not seem drunk. “I am quite well, thank you very much, good sir.” He bobbed his head. “Thank you for your concern. It is very… er… good.” He groped about in a pouch on his belt. “Let me give you a gift of thanks.”

“Oh, really, that’s not necess–”

Augustinus shoved a plump, ripe, golden-green pear in front of his nose. “A pear!” he declared, then beamed. “For you, my helpful friend.”

“How generous,” Crowley gasped out. He seemed to find the drunk boy unreasonably entertaining, even though the boy didn’t even seem to notice him.

It was quite a lovely pear as well, freshly picked from the look of it. “I oughtn’t.”

“You _ought_ ,” Augustinus insisted, pushing it into his hands. “For your journey home.” He flashed that luminous smile again. “And I will definitely be going home too and not falling off walls or taking anymore pears or anything.”

Aziraphale looked down at the pear in his hands, then back at the boy. “Well, if you’re sure. I _do_ like pears.”

Augustinus nodded, then glanced up and flapped a hand urgently.

“What is–?” Aziraphale started to raise his head.

“Probably nothing,” Crowley wheezed, bracing a hand against the wall.

“Moth! Big one!” Augustinus insisted. “That’s all. Not anything.” He caught Aziraphale by the arm, steering him towards the road. “It’s very late, good sir. Have a safe journey.” 

“I think that’s a hint,” Crowley said, finally gathering himself enough to wander after them, though his mouth was still twitching. “Want some company back to the town?”

Aziraphale eyed the young man, who stared back at him earnestly, his hands clasped in front of him, the picture of drunken virtue. “Do you think he’ll be able to get home safely?” he asked the demon, beyond the human’s hearing.

“Yeah,” Crowley knocked the boy on the shoulder as he passed. “Hasn’t got far to go, has he? I don’t think he’ll be climbing any more walls, do you?”

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale agreed. He gave the boy a smile. “Thank you for the pear, young man. It was very kind of you.”

Augustinus raised a hand in something halfway between a wave and a salute. “S’all good, sir. Very good.” He beamed, showing all his teeth. “Have a good night, sir.”

Crowley chuckled. “Come on, angel,” he said. “Let’s leave his lordship to stagger home.” He set off down the road and Aziraphale gave the boy one last careful look before turning and trotting after him, his pear held snugly in his hand.

“He seemed a very polite young man, didn’t he? I mean, aside from the inebriation.”

“Mm.” Crowley’s lips were twitching again. “He had his moments.”

“And we can hardly be the ones to criticise him, I suppose,” Aziraphale added.

After all, they certainly indulged themselves often enough. Speaking of which…

“You don’t happen to have a knife, do you, Crowley?”

The demon gave him a wary look. “Why?”

Aziraphale smiled. “I thought we could share the young man’s gift. If you would like?”

The expression on the demon’s face softened. “It’s not a very big pear, angel.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said firmly, “I didn’t even have a _small_ pear until now, so even half of this is more than I had before, which means it’s only fair that we both get a share.”

The demon laughed. “You are _such_ an angel sometimes,” he said, but he still produced a knife from somewhere on his person. “Go on then.”

And as they walked back to Thagaste in the moonlight, they shared the fruit between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes**  
>  St. Augustine of Hippo was a very important theologian and scholar, whose influence shaped Western Christianity up until the present day. However, in his autobiography, he freely admits he was a complete hellion and this is one of the incidents he cites. "Yet I lusted to thieve, and did it, compelled by no hunger, nor poverty, but through a cloyedness of well-doing, and a pamperedness of iniquity. For I stole that, of which I had enough, and much better. Nor cared I to enjoy what I stole, but joyed in the theft and sin itself."  
> However, he also reflects on this same incident as a point that made him understand the nature of sin and humanity's need for grace, one of the main proponents of his theology. (So by taking fruit from a tree, he has attained knowledge and Crowley's evil deed has come back to bite him. Again :D)  
> Monica of Hippo was Augustine's long-suffering mother, who encouraged and urged her son to seek salvation and was well-remembered for her grace and piety. She also earned Sainthood, like her son, and is remembered for the tears she wept as she prayed for his salvation.


	15. 377AD - Teotihuacan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With a Wannabe Quetzacoatl

Aziraphale ducked under a trailing branch.

It wasn’t done to disobey orders, especially when they came directly from Gabriel himself, but why he was the one chosen to go and ‘take care of a hellish monster’ that was causing problems in Teotihuacan was beyond him. Sandalphon was far more accomplished at smiting than Aziraphale and certainly enjoyed it a lot more.

The local people had been quite pleased to see him, though he suspected it was more because they would prefer to see some bold – or foolish – outsider deal with the monster, rather than risk more of their own people.

He had spoken with the leaders of the city, who had directed him to the Chief Priest, who had spoken heatedly about unholy interloper who had claimed to be one of the teteoh – their spiritual equivalent to Gods as far as Aziraphale understood – and urged them to invade Yax Mutal, another powerful city to the south east. They had driven the monster off, but it had taken refuge in the ruins near the city.

Unfortunately, some of their young warriors had listened too eagerly to the false-teotl and now, the Priest said, trouble was brewing. They were talking about seeking him and following his guidance, which was why the demon had to be slain.

It was a very stupid demon who faked divinity, especially around a pious priest.

And so, Aziraphale was pushing his way through dense undergrowth, on his way to the ruins where the wounded beast was allegedly hiding.

It would have been fine if he still had his sword. Demons and humans quailed before it. But he didn’t and the only thing he had to hand was a good, solid stick. It had a polished knob on the end, which was decorated with blessed iron. It wasn’t a sword, but to be frank, he’d never felt comfortable with weapons.

The forest opened up around the remains of a long-abandoned, overgrown building. Wary, Aziraphale edged out into the clearing, stick raised in his hands, then he paused as he caught a whiff of an awfully familiar scent.

“Oh no…” He hurried towards the building, peering in the half-collapsed doorway. “Hello?”

From the gloomy depths of the building, there was a low groan. “Go away.”

Aziraphale glanced back, then ducked under the crumbling lintel. A snap of his fingers illuminated the dirt- and leaf-matted floor and the steps that led down deeper into the building. He held his hand aloft, hurrying down the staircase and almost tripped over the demon at the bottom.

Crowley was sprawled on the floor, his shoulders propped against the wall. His clothes were in tatters, but it was clear they had been decorated and colourful, pieces of shell and beads strung around his neck. His skin was more scaly than usual, but the parts that weren’t were bruised and criss-crossed with bloody stripes. He gave Aziraphale a baleful look. “Don’t even say it.”

Aziraphale sighed, looking down at him. “Are you surprised? Dressing up as one of their Gods?”

With visible effort, the demon scooted himself up into a sitting position. “I just did what I was told,” he grumbled, wincing and clutching his ribs. “Seeds of discord and what have you.”

The angel crouched down beside him, his loose robes fanning around his knees. “Why didn’t you just heal yourself?” he asked, frowning.

The demon gave him a look. “Funny thing about humans,” he said. “Doesn’t matter who they believe in, as long as they believe in something. And if they believe hard enough…” He winced, cracking his neck. “That Priest, he _really_ believed he had a holy flail.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale winced. Some of the cuts looked quite deep and were rimmed with blisters. “May I?”

The demon made a face, but didn’t pull away when Aziraphale passed his hand over the worst of the injuries. Bruises paled and faded away and the deepest cuts closed up, leaving only traces of blood on Crowley’s skin and clothing.

“There,” the angel said, pleased. “That’s better.”

Crowley sat up against the wall, checking himself over. “You sure you won’t get in trouble for that?” he asked doubtfully.

Aziraphale shook his head at once. “I was sent to take care of a monster. They didn’t specify how I was to take care of it.”

Crowley snorted, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck again. “Nice loophole.”

“You really need to be more careful,” Aziraphale said, sitting down on the moss-covered floor beside him.

“What are you? My mother?”

Aziraphale gave him a reproachful look. “I might not have been the one they sent,” he reminded him mildly. “Would you prefer Sandalphon? Or perhaps Uriel?”

Crowley winced. “Yeah. No. Point taken.” He turned over his bare arms, examining the newly-healed skin. “Humans are funny things. Don’t even believe in the one we call the Almighty, but still have enough faith in them to whack right through my scales.”

“Well, you _did_ deserve it,” Aziraphale said. “Really, you know better than dressing up as a higher power. Don’t you remember that incident in Imet?”

A vague look crossed Crowley’s face, then he grimaced. “Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten about that.” He raised a finger. “In my defence, they _did_ decide that fire-breathing thing was a good trick.”

“You set the Pharaoh’s wig on fire!”

“It made them stop stabbing me! And anyway, they made it one of Wadjet’s specialist skills after that so I think it was a good thing.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale tried to look disapproving. “That’s hardly a measure of success.”

“No one died, did they?”

Aziraphale stared at him in disbelief. “You were _stabbed_!”

“Lightly stabbed. Only a little bit.”

“And you still did it again!”

“Mm.” The demon picked a piece of black fluff out of his hair. The fluff, it transpired, was a black feather. “Had to pluck an eagle to get the look right. It wasn’t very pleased about that.”

Aziraphale almost laughed at the mental image. “I see. Very… authentic of you.”

“It’s a feathered serpent!” Crowley said heatedly. “What was I meant to do?”

Aziraphale met his eyes with an incredulous look. “You have _wings_.”

Crowley blinked at him. “Oh. Right. Damn it!” He groaned, sagging back against the wall. “Stupid idea anyway. Didn’t work.”

Aziraphale thought of the Priest’s words. Better to keep that information from Crowley, in case he decided to fan the flames a little more. “You’ll know better than to try again next time.”

The demon gave him a look. “Isn’t that exactly what you said in Egypt?”

Aziraphale nodded, pressing his lips to keep from laughing. “Maybe this time, the lesson will stick.”

Crowley snorted and smiled crookedly at him. “Wouldn’t bet on it.” He cocked his head, studying Aziraphale. “You going to go back and tell them you vanquished the demon?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “I suppose I ought to.”

“Coming back alive and without your enemy’s head?” Crowley clicked his tongue. “They won’t believe you.” He reached up and lifted the rattling string of beads and shells – still spattered with blood – from around his neck. “This’ll help. Priesty fella was trying to grab it off me.”

Aziraphale took it gratefully. “Thank–”

“S’that or my head,” Crowley interrupted. “Personally, I like my head where it is.”

“Maybe try using it, next time?” Aziraphale said more tartly than he intended.

Crowley snickered, grinning up at him. “Look at you, being all sarcastic, angel. Anyone would think you didn’t like vanquishing an evil demon.”

Aziraphale got to his feet haughtily, brushing moss from his robe. “Do shut up.”

The demon tapped his fingertips to his brow in a salute. “Look forward to being vanquished by you again some time.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips into a line and if he accidentally stepped on the demon’s leg – quite hard, actually – he didn’t even bother to apologise as he stamped back out into daylight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: in 378AD, Yax Mutal (aka Tikal) was invaded/conquered and it was by renegades from the Feathered Serpent people from Teotihuacan. The Feathered Serpent temple was destroyed after this.
> 
> Yep, I know Teotihuacan wouldn't have been called that when it was still a functioning city, but since we don't know what the name was (as far as I could find), I'm going with the only name we currently have for it :)


	16. 565AD – Loch Ness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With Nessie

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Colmcille smiled serenely. “If there is indeed a beast here, the God will grant me the strength to defend against it.”

Aziraphale peered out over lake, searching for any tell-tale froth in the water. Luigne moccu Min was making a game effort at reaching the other side, arms and legs frantically thrashing as he swam towards the far shore of the river, close to the place where the torrents flowed into the lake. “You truly believe that, do you?”

The man nodded, stroking his fingertips along the cross strung from the rosary at his belt, his faith rippling like the flames of a beacon. “I do.”

The angel glanced at the man, trying to hide his own smile. It was always nice to meet one of the good ones. “Then God may grant you the strength indeed,” he murmured and stepped down a little closer to the water’s edge.

There _was_ something in the water and though he couldn’t see it, he could tell it was close.

A shout of panic went up from someone further up the slope.

“It comes!”

Aziraphale glanced back, then followed the man’s wild gestures. Now he knew where to look, he could spot the ripples on the surface of the lake, arrowing towards the mouth of the river. A dark shape beneath the water was swimming rapidly towards the unfortunate Luigne moccu Min. The angel rubbed thumb and index finger together in readiness.

Colmcille walked down three steps into the lapping water, waiting, and Aziraphale found himself holding his breath, though a gasp escaped when the monster’s head broke the surface of the lake, black and scaled and serpentine, glittering with water.

Fortunately, Colmcille wasn’t as startled and he made the sign of the cross and called out "You shall go no further, nor touch the man; go back with all speed!”

Aziraphale stifled a yelp, hastily snapping his fingers. It was messily done, but by all appearances, something grabbed the beast by the tail and yanked it backwards in the water. It thrashed about in alarm, its vast head carving a frothing wake across the surface of the lake, and he heard a very familiar voice wailing “Oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu–”, muffled by a glub as it vanished back under the surface.

Along the shoreline, a roar of rapture and awe went up and Aziraphale hastily blended into the background to allow all attention to focus on the man who would – now for certain – become a Saint in time.

It also meant he could scurry off into the undergrowth further around the lake, pushing through the bushes and the trees and peering urgently down at the water’s edge.

He found what he was looking for only a hundred metres further up the shore.

“Um…”

Crowley shot a filthy look at him. He was wringing water out of his hair as he sloshed onto the shore. “Dirty trick, angel.”

“I’m sorry!” Aziraphale scrambled down the bank, offering the demon a hand up. “I– I only realised it was you and then he said to go back, so you had to. I just– it was a bit more… powerful than I expected.”

Crowley snorted, but he reached up and grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, letting the angel haul him up the shingle-speckled slope. “Ugh…” He pulled a piece of weed from his hair and threw it back into the lake. “Who was that pious little sod anyway?”

“Colmcille?” Aziraphale peered back between the trees where the Picts were gathered, laughing and slapping the Irishman on the back. “He’s going to be a Saint.” He paused, then turned to look at the demon. “What were _you_ doing here anyway?” he demanded. “They said you’d mauled some poor fellow to death.”

Crowley looked up indignantly from wringing out his outsized robe. “You what?”

Aziraphale had to admit he was relieved. “There was a man pulled from the water before we came. They said a beast – you – had attacked him while he swam.”

“Course they did,” Crowley grumbled. “Up here, tempting a few more people to remember the old spirits and things and away from those bloody Christians and what do they do? Blame me the minute the drunk old bugger got caught in the river current and ran himself into some rocks.” A snap of his fingers dried out his robe. “That’s what you get for trying to help someone back to shore, is it? Accused of _eating_ them?”  

The angel blinked at him stupidly. “You were… helping him?”

Crowley made a face. “Had to convince them that I was something worth worshipping, didn’t I? Get them by the faith and the temptation and sin follows.” He tugged at the cord around his waist, cinching it in. “But nooooo. They send a _Saint_ after me.”

“But helping–” Aziraphale shook his head in confusion. “You could have tempted them without helping him or anything.”

“Well, yeah.” Crowley stamped up the bank, impatiently braiding back his hair. “I’ve got a wide and varied skill set, angel. Don’t have to play by the same rules all the time.” He paused, then turned, looking back at the angel. “You owe me a drink.”

“I do?”

Crowley looked pointedly at the now-still waters of the lake. “Yeah,” he said. “Y’do.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks pinked. “Um. Yes. All right.” He hurried up after him. “I _am_ sorry.”

The demon chuckled ruefully. “Yeah. I know.” He flashed a small smile and nodded ahead of them. “C’mon, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes** : Colmcille was a historic figure and would later be known as Saint Columba. According to a biography of his life, he cast away a great monster in Loch Ness and, in doing so, earned the support and favour of the local Picts.


	17. 793AD - Lindisfarne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With Vikings and Books

The tall candle stand crashed as it fell, candles bouncing and rolling across the floor, spattering wax in their way. Flames licked at the edge of the monks’ desks and they stamped at them, trying desperately to smother them.

“This is–” One of their number – the only one to look more angry than afraid – pushed his way to the front of the huddle monks. “How dare you!”

The leader of the raiding party grinned at him, showing his teeth, as he raised his arm and his sword.

“Oi! No!”

The sword was swinging down too fast.

Aziraphale lifted his hands to miracle the sword away, but somewhere behind the armed man, someone snapped their fingers.

The angel blinked in surprise as the Viking – and the rest of the room – froze in place. He leaned sideways, squinting over the furs of the Viking’s cape. Another Viking was picking his way towards them, his red hair and beard braided and dark streaks of war paint around his eyes. “ _Crowley_?”

The demon gave him a cheery wave. “All right, Aziraphale? How’re things?”

“How are things?” Aziraphale stared at him in outraged indignation. “Your people attacked my monastery!”

The demon’s gaze flicked from the frozen Vikings to the cowering huddle of monks, the light of the motionless flames gleaming strangely in his eyes. “Oh. Right. Yeah.” He offered a lop-sided smile. “Hazard of the job, isn’t it? Anyway, not my people. Just getting a lift back from Gotland. Not my fault your lot keep a bunch of gold and shiny bits and pieces, is it? Can’t help it if these lads – and Freya – are magpies.”

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh for Heaven’s…”

“What do you mean _your_ monastery anyway?”

Aziraphale lowered his hand to glare at Crowley. “Any place that is a place of goodness, mercy, hope–”

“And big gold crosses and jewels,” Crowley put in helpfully, looking far too amused. “Don’t forget the worldly possessions. Can’t forget those.”

“Shut up.”

The demon flashed his teeth and wrinkled his nose. “Temper, temper, Aziraphale. Anyone would think you were…” He glanced about, then leaned closer and said in a stage-whisper, “Wrathful.”

Aziraphale was very tempted to give him a firm smack around the ear. “I’ve been working very hard here!” he said indignantly. “I can’t have you destroying what they’ve created.”

“Working?” Crowley wrinkled his nose again. “Not exactly challenging, is it? Religious people are the easy way out. What’s so special–”

Aziraphale caught him by the arm, transporting them to another room. There were more Vikings and monks there, several of the latter bleeding on the floor. Aziraphale’s heart ached, but humanity was humanity and people would kill and be killed as they always had. Ever since the first sword was placed in their grip.

Another thought came up quickly behind it and he squashed it.

It was no good worrying about the part he’d played in it all, when there were Vikings and blood on the floor.

“Here,” he said, stepping over the fallen men to the chest that contained Eadfrith’s life’s work. The catch opened smoothly and he lifted out the most precious of the monastery’s works. The book was thick and heavy and utterly beautiful.

For once, Crowley didn’t seem to have anything glib to say.

“They… made this?”

Aziraphale nodded, spreading his fingers on the illuminated pages. “One man and his followers. A testament to their faith and their love,” he said softly. “Please. You can’t let them destroy it.” He hated to admit it but his voice trembled. “I couldn’t bear to see such devotion burned.”

For several heartbeats, Crowley was silent. He ran his thumb around the shape of the head letter.

“They’ll want the cover,” he finally said. “Don’t think they’d even care about the book.” He raised his eyes to Aziraphale’s. “If you can encourage one of yours to…” – he hesitated, then mimed smacking something with his axe – “commit a mortal sin to get to it, I can get one of mine to show mercy to him – and it – so he can get it out of here.”

That sounded awfully like an offer made before, only now there was no time to moralise and speculate.

“I can talk to your friends–” He began.

Crowley glanced over at the bloody Vikings, a doubtful expression on his face. “You want to try?” He shook his head. “We don’t have time to debate the ethics. These lads are… well, they like a bit of a massacre. They _won’t_ stop.”

He was right, of course. Blessings and guiding people towards the light took time, not something they had when warriors were in the throes of pillaging.

“My fellow will do what he has to,” he said stiffly, “but for the greater good.”

For a moment, the demon look at him with something like sympathy in his eyes. “I hope he knows that.”

 

**The next day**

The ruins of the abbey were still smouldering. Bodies were scattered on the ground. A lone monk was picking his way back across the path worn into the grass beyond the abbey. His face was ashen, his eyes red. Bloody hands cradled a bundle to his chest, carefully wrapped in cloth.

On an outcrop overlooking the ruins, an angel and a demon stood side-by-side, watching as the young monk stumbled towards the causeway, the tide out far enough for him to wade across to the mainland with his precious burden. In the pre-dawn light, they’d watched him gather the relics of the Saint too, ladening himself down for his flight.

“You all right, angel?” Crowley asked quietly.

Not for the first time, Aziraphale wondered if he deserved that title. He looked down at his hands. He had been twisting them over and over and by now, they should have been bruised and sore. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. His brow creased in a worried frown. “It– that–”

“Tempting,” Crowley murmured.

“Yes. That.” Aziraphale shook his head, confusion rife on his face. “It shouldn’t have been so simple.”

The demon nodded, gazing at him. “We’re two sides of the same coin, you and I. Same job in different directions. All you had to do was shift your perspective a bit.” One side of his mouth turned up. “No-score draw, eh? One for temptation, one for redemption. Doesn’t matter who did what as long as it got the job done.”

“Only this time,” the angel said firmly, though his voice was unsteady. “One time. Never again.”

The demon gazed back at the burning ruins. Scraps of tapestry fluttered in the wind. “He’ll come back.”

Aziraphale looked at him. “The monk?”

Crowley shook his head. “Leif Magnusson.” There was an odd, wistful smile whispering around his lips. “He saw the book. He’s… curious now. Fascinated.” He slanted a sidelong look at Aziraphale. “Made sure of that.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were round. “You… saved him?”

Crowley shrugged. “Can’t be sure. Maybe. Just enough of a nudge in the… right direction. May not end well for him.” He laughed, a little sadly. “Curiosity can get you in a lot of trouble.” He met the angel’s incredulous look. “Why so surprised? I was a damned good angel in my time. Been a while, but I still know a few of the tricks of the trade.”

The angel was staring at him as if he’d never truly seen him before. “Oh.”

The demon turned to grin at him, even if it looked a bit more forced than usual. “Sure you don’t want to take me up on my offer, now you know how bloody good I am?”

“Oh!” This time the sound was more indignant. “No!” The angel turned and stormed away from him.

Alone on the outcrop, Crowley watched him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note:  
> \- 793AD was the first recorded Viking raid on the British mainland (semantics, since Lindisfarne is technically sometimes an island/sometimes a peninsula depending on the tides).  
> \- During that raid, the Lindisfarne Gospels lost their original cover, which suggests it was stupidly ornate and expensive-looking, since Vikings liked nicking anything valuable. The book itself was created by either one monk or a squad of them between 715-720 and are among the most well-preserved illustrated manuscripts of the era.


	18. 879-1020 - The Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With the Arrangement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been gunning for the arrangement from the word go with this fic. The challenge is building up to it organically and hopefully, I've managed to do that with these two idiots, a couple of centuries of dithering and a few more spots on geography bingo.

**879 – Burgundy**

“Why is it,” Crowley said as they squelched across the courtyard, rain bouncing off their helmets, “that every time we meet like this, it’s pouring?”

Aziraphale had been wondering the same think. It was unseasonably chilly in Burgundy and water was dripping down the back of his neck. “Neither rain, nor storm, nor gloom of night can stay these messengers about their duty.”

Crowley’s squelches stopped. “Where’d you dig up that bollocks?” he demanded.

Aziraphale made a face at him. “Well, we _are_ messengers.”

“We’re drowned rats, that’s what we are.” The demon shuddered, his mail rattling. “Don’t see why both of us have to be here as well.”

“Don’t start on that again,” Aziraphale trudged on, his leather boots doing little to keep out the mud and water.

“It’s true though, isn’t it?” Crowley squished after him. “I mean, it’s not like we don’t know we can do both. Remember Lindis–”

Aziraphale spun around, then grabbed at the demon’s arm to steady himself when his foot skidded in the mud. “That,” he said, straightening up, “was a one-time exception.”

“Fine,” the demon sighed. “Just a suggestion.”

Aziraphale made a face at him. “Fiend.” He turned sharply and continued across the courtyard.

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley grumbled gloomily, plodding after him.

 

 

**894 – Baroli**

“At least it’s warm this time?”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around his middle and stepped more pointedly back beneath the thatched roof of the mud-and-stick house. It _was_ warm, but the rain was battering the ground with a vengeance. “It wasn’t raining last time we ran into each other.”

“That’s cos we weren’t on the job,” Crowley pointed out, shaking out the colourful swirl of fabric he had wrapped around himself. It reminded Aziraphale of a toga, only stitched with bright patterns. His hair was longer again and loose to his waist, decorated with beads and jewels like the women of the village they were currently in. He was even wearing a gleaming stud in his nose. “Having a drink together doesn’t count.”

“Semantics,” the angel muttered. “Why are you here?”

“Erm…”

Aziraphale glanced at him. The demon almost looked embarrassed. “What is it?”

“A chicken.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Crowley rubbed at his forehead. “I’m here,” he said, as if every word was being dragged out of him, “to tempt a boy to steal a chicken.”

“A chicken.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I see.”

Crowley glared at him, daring him to laugh. “You know what the job’s like,” he said sullenly. “It’s not all topple-the-empire.” He narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale. “Why are you here?”

“A touch of inspiration for the foundation of a temple or two,” Aziraphale said serenely. “Unlike your job.”

It was, he thought, very immature of Crowley to blow a raspberry in response.

 

**902 – Mercia**

“Oho! How the tables have turned!”

Aziraphale shot a glare over his shoulder. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“I dunno.” The demon was perched on the wall that surrounded the small courtyard. “Looks to me like you’re involved in… fowl play.” He grinned even more widely when the angel groaned. “Need a hand, angel?”

Aziraphale made a face. “I can manage quite well on my own,” he said, making a sharp gesture to freeze the errant goose where it was. “The silly woman refused to listen to me unless I fetched her goose.” He straightened up with the bird tucked under his arm. He frowned. “What on earth are you dressed as?”

Crowley glanced down at himself and the rags and tatters he was wearing. “Village idiot, I think. Or mystic prophet,” he said. “Hard to tell these days. Cushy number, though. Just have to stand in the town square and make ominous proclamations at people who go by. Funny how easy they are to wind up, humans.”

Aziraphale, knee-deep in animal and bird matter, an angrily-pecking goose under his arm, grimaced. “Why do you always get the easy jobs?”

Crowley laughed, crossing one knee over the other. “S’because we’re known for it, aren’t we? Sloth. We’re lazy so we make the job as easy as possible. Why’d’you think they like the one-on-one treatment so much downstairs? Show up once a week per person, boom, temptation accomplished.”

It certainly did sound much simpler and far less time-consuming. And on top of that, that’s all Crowley was doing and he was still cancelling out every carefully-planned blessing and miracle Aziraphale created. It hardly seemed fair. And Crowley _had_ suggested they stay at home once in a while and there was that rather nice little villa in Londinium–

He shook himself, annoyed.

“Stop that!”

“Stop what?” The demon raised his eyebrows.

“ _Tempting me_.”

Crowley looked bewildered. “I’m not.”

“Of course you are,” Aziraphale said tetchily. “Why else would you make it sound so easy?”

“You’ve lost me, angel.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Hm.”

 

 

**917 – Priesca**

“Now I’m not saying I’m considering your suggestion…”

“What suggestion was that?” Crowley inquired, snapping his fingers to crack the support leg of one of the ladders propped against the wall above them.

Aziraphale delicately side-stepped as there was a yell from above and the ladder started to tip. A shower of masonry crashed down some yards away. On the ground, a red-faced human rushed over from one of the tables that lined the edge of the building site, rage roiling off him like steam.

“The… ah…” He paused, considering the situation, then moved his hand, a puff of air catching the falling builder and setting him on his feet on the ground. A sussuration of gasps passed through the crowd, most of whom hastily crossed themselves, and even the furious architect’s anger briefly waned. “ _That_ ,” Aziraphale clarified.

“What? You undoing all my…” Crowley paused, considering him. “Oh. _That_ suggestion.”

“We can’t be sure they wouldn’t know.”

Crowley snorted, flicking his finger towards the half-constructed wall above them. A fresh shower of masonry fragments rained down, reminding the architect of his outrage. “D’you honestly think they have time to quality control every little thing? No one cares.”

“ _I_ care.”

“And all angels on high are like you, are they?” Crowley waved a hand dismissively. “Nah. They’re all just ticking the boxes. Make the numbers and knock off for the day. Sooner the better as well.”

Aziraphale glanced at the focus of his particular task. The man’s hands were badly bruised and it looked like at least one bone broken from scrabbling at the wall as he fell. A curl of Aziraphale’s fingers and a whisper of a blessing and the bones slid back into alignment, the bruises fading under the awed eyes of his fellows.

“Oi!” The demon nudged him. “Don’t overdo it. There’s only so much cathedral I can drop before my guy’ll take it as an act of God and give you the credit as well.”

Aziraphale had the grace to blush. So fine was the line between a miracle and damnation. “Sorry.”

Crowley snorted. “Right.”

 

**978 – On the shores of Lake Chad**

The pebble bounced off a rock and landed neatly on the tree branch above the surface of the shimmering lake.

“You cheated.”

Crowley glanced up at the mildly reproachful voice. “Well, yeah.” He held up a pebble to the angel. “Want to give it a go.”

Aziraphale turned the pebble over in his hands. “Actually…” He faltered, frowning, squinting against the bright sunlight. “Er…”

Crowley sprawled down onto his back, lacing his fingers behind his head. His braid made for a decent pillow against the short, prickly grass. “Spit it out, angel. You didn’t come all this way to get tongue-tied.” He yawned, closing his eyes against the day. “S’not like I don’t have better things to do.”

“Ididatemptation.”

Crowley’s eyes slammed open. “You did _what_?”

The angel’s face was scarlet. “I-I-I thought I ought to test the hypothesis! I mean, what you said! About them not checking!” His hands were rapidly spinning the pebble so much that it was little more than a blur between his fingers. “And-and-and I thought…well, I thought if I did one and balanced it out with an extra miracle, then no one would mind and so… well… um…”

Crowley stared up at him. “You?” He rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow, trying to wrap his head around the fact that Aziraphale hadn’t just done it, but had done it after considering Crowley’s advice. “Aziraphale. Guardian of the Eastern Gate? A Cherubim of the Heavenly Choir?”

The angel pursed his lips testily. “Don’t rub it in, all right?”

Crowley shoved himself up to sit. “Details.”

“I– what?”

“Details.” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “Come on. What did you do? Who did you tempt?”

Aziraphale stammered out a couple of words, fidgeting with the pebble.

“Oh for Hell’s sake,” Crowley groaned. Another click of his fingers and there was a cushion on the ground beside him as well as a decent-sized jar of a local brew and two cups. “Sit down, angel. Try not to look like you’re about to spontaneously combust.”

Aziraphale sagged down gratefully.

It took almost half the jar before the angel finally dropped the pebble.

“So…?” Crowley prompted.

“It–” The angel cleared his throat. “I thought I would do something small. Just in case, you know.”

“Yeah.” Crowley propped his arms on his upraised knees, watching him, unblinking.

“I prompted a young woman to… to steal something.” Aziraphale’s cheeks were definitely getting redder.

“Yeah?” Crowley couldn’t help the grin plastered all over his face. Aziraphale looked guilty as sin, but God, it was a good look on him. “What did she steal?”

If he was blushing before, Aziraphale went nearly scarlet. “N’apple.”

Crowley gawped at him. An apple. His first full-blown solo temptation and he made a woman steal a bloody apple. But of _course_ he’d do that. He’d been there. He’d seen it. One small apple…

And he’d seen what happened after.

Crowley’s insides twisted suddenly. Aziraphale didn’t know if he was going to walk away from it, if his Heavenly superiors would bring down their wrath on him, and when he chose to risk a sin, when he dared to risk a temptation, he chose the same thing Crowley had been marked by for the rest of his existence.

“I– it– I thought it was… appropriate…” The angel sounded even more flustered. “I mean, not that it’s ever quite appropriate, but as… how was it you put it? A first offence?”

Crowley knew he should probably say something, but it felt like all his words were gone.

Every time he thought the bloody angel couldn’t surprise him anymore, Aziraphale went and turned his already chaotic world on its head again.

It took him a couple of mouthfuls from his cup before his throat would open enough to let him croak out. “No trouble since?”

Aziraphale shook his head, looking relieved. “I waited for ten years, just to be sure.”

Crowley promptly sprayed beer all over himself. “TEN YEARS!?”

The angel recoiled, offended. “There’s no need to shout.”

“But you-you-you tempt someone!” Crowley sputtered, outraged. “You! An _angel_! And you wait ten sodding years to tell me?!”

Aziraphale’s lips pursed. “Well, if I’d known you would make such a fuss…”

“Angel!” Crowley wailed.

The angel’s expression softened. “I had to be sure, you see,” he said quickly. “I mean, you haven’t seen how long they take with paperwork upstairs. I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. I thought it might worry you.”

And there was that feeling of the world being turned upside down again.

Crowley snatched up the jug of beer and refilled his cup, taking three quick gulps. “D’you think…” He hesitated, wondering if it was a bit too soon to ask. But he’d never been very good at the virtues, especially not the patience rubbish. “D’you think you would do it again?”

Aziraphale looked down into his cup, a frown furrowing his brow. “I don’t know.”

Well, Crowley thought as he leaned over and refilled Aziraphale’s cup, it wasn’t a no this time.

 

**1020 – Southwark**

“I don’t know why you keep coming back here.”

Aziraphale glanced across the table at his companion. Crowley was slouched in the chair as if he had barely a bone in his body. He had foregone his glasses. It was dark enough for them to be unnecessary. “This inn?”

“This whole area.” Crowley waved vaguely at the shuttered windows that hid the river and the city beyond it. “You could set up house anywhere and you choose the one city that has ‘burn me down and pillage me’ as a welcome mat.”

“I like it.”

“Yeah, I get that. I don’t get why.”

The angel shrugged, toying with his wooden cup. “Don’t you ever find somewhere that feels like…” He frowned, trying to find a human term for what he felt about London. “It’s not… Heaven, by any means, but it feels… right. Almost like it could be home.”

The demon arched an eyebrow. “Somewhere full of fire and screaming raiders and it feels like home? You should swing by Hell sometime. You’d get on…” One side of his mouth jerked up. “Like a house on fire.”

Aziraphale tried to school his expression into exasperation instead of fond amusement. “Surely you know what I mean, though? Don’t you have anywhere that you feel… comfortable? Safe?”

Crowley stared across the table at him for a few seconds, then finally blinked and looked away. “I think I know what you mean, yeah.” He wrinkled his nose. “Still don’t know why you feel that way about this fire hazard.”

“Let’s just agree to disagree about it,” Aziraphale said.

“Story of our life, eh, angel?” Crowley smiled crookedly at him. “So… if we’re not here to talk about your awful choice of neighbourhoods, why did you want to meet?”

Aziraphale turned his cup between his fingers. “I’ve been… thinking a little bit lately.”

“That’s not exactly news.” Crowley sat up, reaching for the pitcher to refill his cup.

“About your… suggestion.” He said the words carefully, watching the demon’s face.

Crowley’s expression didn’t change, not right away, then he sat back. “My suggestion?”

“Perhaps we–” Lord, it was harder to give voice to the words than he’d expected, even though it made a ridiculous amount of sense. “We could… arrange something.” The demon was staring at him, as if he could see right through him. “I-I mean, I would be trusting you a great deal to hold up your side, if I– if we do have an agreement.”

“And I’d have to trust you,” Crowley’s voice was mild. “Goes both way.”

“Yes, but I’m an _angel_. Of course I’m trustworthy.”

The demon raised his eyebrow again. “If you say so…” He leaned forward, propping both forearms on the table, almost oppressively close if it had been anyone else. “What do you have in mind?”

Aziraphale’s mouth was dry, but this was definitely the right decision, given the circumstances. It would waste much less power and energy, rushing about cancelling Crowley’s temptations, which in turn would mean he could be of more use, even if it did require a literal deal with a devil.

“The work _must_ be done,” he said as firmly as he could. “We divide the duties where we can. If we are both to go to one place, then it would save us both time and energy if only one went, wouldn’t it?”

The demon’s lips were twitching. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you were trying to avoid crossing paths with me.”

Aziraphale huffed indignantly. “Oh, don’t be absurd. If I wanted to do that, I could.”

Crowley’s smirk turned into that familiar wicked grin. “So you don’t want to?”

The angel flapped a hand, flustered. “We’re getting off the topic!”

“Ah. Yes.” The demon inclined his head, his cropped hair sliding against his shoulder. “This new… arrangement.” He propped his elbow on the table, then cupped his chin in his hand. “I do blessings and you do temptations? And we both trust each other to maintain equilibrium?”

Aziraphale nodded, then frowned at the demon. “If I find out you’ve been messing me around and that this was all a ruse, I’ll–”

“Oh, for Hell’s sake, angel,” Crowley sighed. “I’d welcome the break as much as you.” He sat up again and offered his hand. “Will you trust me?”

Aziraphale looked from Crowley to his hand.

Five thousand years they had known one another. Five thousand mortal years of waiting for the proverbial knife in the back, but it had never come. Instead, there had been too many drinks, rather a lot of conversation and even some unexpected laughter.

Though some part of him was still screaming that Crowley was the enemy and a demon, a greater – and more sensible and pragmatic – part chose to ignore it. He reached over the table and slipped his hand into the demon’s grasp. “I’ll trust you.”

And when Crowley smiled at him, it was bright as sunlight. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:  
> 879 - To be honest, I just picked this one because I find it funny that they start discussing it again in a place famous for wine and yet they are not drunk.  
> 894 - Baroli, India - The foundation of the Baroli temple complex began shortly after this point. I... borrowed that fact for Aziraphale to offer some divine inspiration.  
> 902 - Mercia - No reason for this one and no major historical incidents. I just like Monty Python :)  
> 917 - Priesca, Spain - The church mentioned in this chapter is Iglesia de San Salvador de Priesca, which was consecrated in 921.  
> 978 - Lake Chad - No historical reason for this one, it was just a beautiful place and somewhere isolated enough that Aziraphale felt safe to confess his sins :)  
> 1020 - Southwark, London - Crowley is not understating things when he said London has a "burn me down and pillage me" sign on the door. In the 10 years leading up to this chapter, there had been at least 3 sieges, London's old bridge had been mostly burned down, the walled city had been held by the Danes, and Cnut had come up the Thames on boats to do battle. Southwark was one of the defensive bastions on the south side of the river, opposite the city and on the end of the bridge. And then, in 1066, William the Conqueror showed up and took it too.


	19. 909AD – Baltonsborough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With Moar Saints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, hasn't it? :) Now, just to warn you, this story covers two dates - 909AD and 947AD - which technically fit between Mercia (902AD), Priesca (917AD) and Lake Chad (978AD) of the Arrangement chapter. And I'm only adding it, because... well, read it and see if you can spot why before you get to my historical notes at the end :)

**909AD – Baltonsborough, Wessex**

“Oh for Heaven’s sake!”

Crowley tilted his head to peer out of the deep shadow of his hooded tunic. It wasn’t the brightest of nights, lit by a single blade of light spilling holily from the partly-open doors of the church, bringing the smell of candlewax and incense with it. “Angel? S’that you?”

“Who else would be able to spot you?” Aziraphale demanded. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Crowley jerked his thumb towards the open doorway. “Got to put on a show for that lot. Waiting for my cue. You?”

The angel’s lips pursed. “The same,” he admitted and Crowley carefully and deliberately squashed down the temptation to point out they were both mucking around in the same place _yet again_. It happened a lot and they both knew it. No point flogging the same dead horse.

“Anyone in particular?” he inquired. “Or just a general flash of lights, glowy eyes, whoooo, mystic spiritual intervention sort of thing?”

“Um.” The angel fidgeted, tugging at the collar of – oh for Satan’s sake. He was wearing a bleeding cassock. That meant undercover, which meant it wasn’t even anything dramatic. Probably just some daft little blessing he could have done with one hand tied behind his back and standing on his head.

“C’mon,” Crowley coaxed, grinning. “How bad can it be?”

“It’s just one person, technically,” Aziraphale admitted. “A young lady. I have to make sure she is… very blessed. On behalf of her soon-to-be-child.” He peeked in at the church, the light casting a golden glow over his face. “Her name’s Cynethryth.”

“Sounds like a sneeze.” Crowley straightened up, listening. “Ah, hold on a tick… that’s my cue.” A sharp snap of his fingers sent a torrent of bitterly cold wind gusting at the doors. They crashed inwards and the wind whirled through the church, extinguishing every single candle and plunging the building into darkness.

People were screaming and gabbling prayers in a panic and he heard the angel sigh.

“Oh, _really_ , Crowley.” He snapped his fingers. “Let there be light…”

The sense of panic and terror evaporated and Crowley felt the ripple of awe and wonder pouring out of the building.

“Angel…” He swung around, glaring at the wide-eyed Aziraphale. “Did you just… undo what I did?”

“Not… precisely,” Aziraphale said sheepishly. “I relit Cynethryth’s candle. That’s all.”

That’s all. Room of darkness, all candles snuffed out, and one miraculously popped back to life.

“Ugggggggggggh!” Crowley threw his head back with a groan. “ _Angel_! I’ve been waiting here for a bloody hour and now, turns out I didn’t need to bother? I was meant to scare the living daylights out of them and everything!”

“Oh! Er… sorry, I suppose.” Aziraphale reached out consoling, then hesitated awkwardly. “Well, technically, I couldn’t have done it without you, could I?” He gave Crowley’s arm a single, careful pat. “So jolly well done.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

The angel offered a cautious smile. “Why? Is it working?”

It was so damned hard to stay annoyed with the soft idiot.

“Couldn’t say,” he said airily, though he couldn’t stop himself from grinning. He jerked his head back in the direction of the main street. “You can make it up to me with some mead.”

Aziraphale’s expression brightened. “I do like a drink with honey in it.”

“Honey, alcohol,” Crowley laughed. “Best of both. C’mon, angel.”

 

 

________________________________________

 

**947 – Glastonbury**

 

Aziraphale had always had a weakness for visiting places of love and devotion. Glastonbury was positively swimming in it, despite the old abbey still lying in ruins. The person he had come to find throbbed at the centre of the place like a heartbeat. Oh, he would do _marvellous_ things, this young man.

The angel was so distracted by the sheer sense of peace about the place that he didn’t notice another man hopping frantically from foot to foot until he collided squarely with him and sent them both reeling.

“Ack!” The man caught his elbow as he staggered, keeping them both on their feet. “Oh! Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale stared in astonishment at the demon in holy vestments, bouncing urgently from one foot to the other. He had one hand over his face. “Crowley? Aren’t you– isn’t this sanctified ground?”

“Mm. Yeah. Bit nippy.” The demon hobbled and hopped by him. “Scuse me.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” Aziraphale hurried after him, slipping his arms behind the demon’s knees and his arms behind his back and hoisting him off the ground. Crowley yelped and clutched at him, as if he expected to… oh. To Fall. “Oh don’t worry, my dear,” Aziraphale scolded gently. “I’m not as weak as you seem to think.” 

He carried the demon back to the edge of the grounds, setting him down on the road by a grassy verge.

“Ohhh.” Crowley sagged in relief. “Ow.” He clutched on Aziraphale’s arm and tilted up one foot then the other. They looked like they were clad in boots, but closer to, Aziraphale could see the patina of scales. “Don’t recommend that. Not without shoes on.”

“What on earth were you thinking, going into a church?” Aziraphale demanded, steadying him.

“Orders,” Crowley replied with a wince as he set his foot back down on the grass. He sat down heavily, stretching out his legs, and pushed back his hood.

“Oh good Lord! Your face!”

Crowley grimaced and lifted a hand to gingerly touch his nose. It was swollen and blistered on both sides. “Yeah. Had a bit of a… run-in with the lad I was sent to tempt. No one mentioned the overzealous little bugger blessed his smithing tools.”

Aziraphale stared at him, then looked over his shoulder in the direction of the church. “I don’t suppose you were there for Dunstan? The monk?”

Crowley blinked slowly. “Ahhh. Yours?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale sat down on the verge beside him. “I don’t know if you’ll remember her, but there was a young lady in Wessex a few decades ago…?”

“Sneeze-girl?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Young Dunstan is her son.”

Crowley made a grumpy sound. “Typical. Should’ve been easy. He’s been double-crossed, beaten up, tossed in a ditch to die, accused of witchcraft and everything. Should be bitter and angry and all the easiest emotions to tempt.”

“And instead, you get one set for sainthood.”

Crowley made a face, shaking his head. “I swear they do this on purpose.”

“What’s that?”

“Sending me after ones who will become all… holy.” He mournfully looked at Aziraphale. “At the rate I’m going, I’ll have the full set by the turn of the millennium.” He heaved a dramatic sigh that – Aziraphale felt – was only a little over the top. “Knowing my bloody luck, at the end of the world, I’ll get the sodding Antichrist.”

“Oh, now you’re being ridiculous,” Aziraphale said gently. “This one is only tapped for sainthood. Hardly a world-changing Messiah or anything.”

“And Yeshua was only meant to be a prophet and look where that got us,” Crowley said. He dug his toes into the grass, wiggling them. “You here for Dunstan as well?”

“A little inspiration,” Aziraphale confirmed with a nod. “He’s a very talented young man.”

Crowley carefully touched the tip of his nose. “Well, he definitely knows his way around a pair of tongs, I’ll give him that.” He was quiet for a moment. “D’you think you’ll be long?”

Aziraphale chuckled, getting back to his feet. “Probably not. As long as I don’t get the same kind of welcome as you, I may even be done before the next bells.” He considered offering Crowley a hand to help him up, then thought about his aching, probably burned feet. “Can you wait here?”

Crowley sprawled back on his elbows in the grass. “Why? What do I get?”

“Only some of the best pre-sacramental wine in the country.”

The demon’s face split in a grin. “Stealing from _monks_? Angel, I’m _shocked_.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose at him. “It’s not stealing when they give it to you as a gift,” he said. “And anyway, even if I did take it, it’s while on heavenly business. That technically means it could be considered a tithe.”

Crowley snickered. “Yeah,” he said, “keep telling yourself that.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale tried to glare, but from the grin on Crowley’s face, he wasn’t very convincing. “Do be quiet.”

As he turned and stamped back in the direction of St. Mary’s, he heard the demon laughing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes** : A 10th century Archbishop of Canterbury, Dunstan was canonised and became one of the most popular English saints for a long time. He was responsible for the rebuilding of Glastonbury cathedral (which had been pillaged in the 9th century) and was considered a great holy man, artist, smith and various other things.  
> In 1941, a London Church dedicated to him - St. Dunstan's of the East - was destroyed in an air raid by a German bomb.


	20. 928AD – Rila

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, yes, this is another one that squeezes in somewhere in the middle of the Arrangement chapter, but I couldn't resist.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!”

Crowley grinned up at the angel in the entrance to the cave. “Surprise!”

Aziraphale made a moue, stepping down into the cave, a chest cradled in his arms. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Same old, same old,” Crowley replied, sprawling back against the cave wall. “What about you? Last I heard, you were holding court in Great Preslav?”

“Ah.” Aziraphale winced. “Well, you see, there’s a chap hereabouts that my fellow wants to meet. He’s been earning quite the reputation for miracles.”

It took a lot of effort to keep his face straight. “Miracles, eh? How about that?”

The angel’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Crowley…”

“Imagine! Miracles! All the way up here!”

“Crowley, what have you _done_?”

“Nothing!” He paused, considered. “Weeeeeeell, maybe 25 percent of nothing. 40 at a push.”

Aziraphale groaned. “ _You’re_ behind this? All of the…” He tried to flap his very full hand and resorted to flapping an elbow instead. “What the Hell are you doing? You _can’t_ do miracles!”

“Ah, but I’m _not._ ” Crowley couldn’t stop the grin from spreading. “The magical miracle hermit does. You know? Bit hairy? Not keen on hygiene or people? Occasionally beats himself up a bit?” He waved grandly around the cavern they were in. “Lives in a cave that is exactly 100 percent this one?”

The angel’s face fell. “Oh no.”

Crowley beamed at him. “Oh yes. You know I get assigned the holy ones. He’s getting _really_ ratty with me. Turns out he doesn’t like the extra attention.”

“And you can… tolerate being in here?”

Crowley shrugged cheerfully. “S’a cave, angel. Not exactly sanctified, is it?” He got to his feet, dusting flecks of stone from his robes. “Oi, Ivan! You going to be less of a grumpy bugger today? You’ve got a visitor.”

Something moved in the gloomier crevice at the back of the cave.

“I told you to get out.”

“And I told you I’m not listening,” Crowley called back. “Anyway, didn’t your good Lord say you should welcome people into your home?” He winked at the angel. “Something about blessing the people who seek comfort and knowledge, yeah? Be nice and sociable and interact with everyone? Blah blah blah?”

The hermit stamped out from the smaller cavern. “You keep your blasphemy to yourself, demon. I–” He paused at the sight of Aziraphale. “Who are you?”

The angel pinked and opened up the chest. It was packed with gold and trinkets and all the kind of things an ascetic shunned. “I bring you a gift from–” He backed up a step at the dangerous gleam in the human’s eye and Crowley snickered. “I mean… er…”

“Another one!” Ivan grabbed a rock and hurled it at Aziraphale. “Out, demon! Out! I don’t want your temptations!”

“I _beg_ your pardon!” Aziraphale yelped in indignation. “I’m not a demon!”

“Ha!” Ivan advanced on him, waving his well-worn crucifix. “You come here – _here_ – bringing the trappings of wealth and greed and luxury, all dressed in silks and velvets!” He jabbed Aziraphale in the chest and Crowley had to smash his hands over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud at the absolute outrage on the angel’s face. “Take your wealth and money to someone who might succumb to your wiles!”

“I’m here, bringing you a gift from your _Tsar_!”

Ivan blinked owlishly at him. “My Tsar?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale was red in the face. “Tsar Peter! He’s come to seek your spiritual guidance! We heard about your miracles in the city! He wanted to come and pay his respects to you!”

Crowley rolled onto his feet and sauntered over, peering over Ivan’s skinny shoulder. “They _did_ mention the ‘giving up all worldly possessions’ part of being a hermit, didn’t they?” he inquired. “Or did Pete miss the memo?” He reached for a jewel-crusted goblet. “Mind you, the place could do with a little brightening up.”

Ivan flapped a hand at him. “Off, demon!”

Crowley crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. “Hasn’t worked for the past three months. Isn’t about to work now.” He plopped himself back down on one of the boulders by the cavern wall and stretched out his legs. “So you going to take his shiny presents, then?”

Ivan glowered at him. Crowley had to admit he liked the stubborn old coot. Reminded him of a certain spell spent in the desert, centuries back.

“He means it as a token of respect,” Aziraphale put in with a quick smile. “He would be honoured to meet you.”

“Ooooh,” Crowley snickered. “Get him. He’d be _honoured_. Makes you special, doesn’t it? Boss of the country comes all this way from the big city just for an audience with you.” Ivan’s lips compressed to a thin line. “Oh, go on,” Crowley goaded, grinning at the matching expressions on both angel and saint’s faces. “Doesn’t it make you the teensiest bit proud? Bet he’ll fawn on you and dote and everything.”

The thin line turned hard and Ivan slammed the lid of the chest so hard that Aziraphale staggered.

“You may tell his Majesty,” he said without taking his eyes off Crowley’s face, “I cannot accept his gifts. When a man has so much and has so many who look to him for protection and care, that is where he must lay his fortunes. He cannot buy his way into Heaven with trinkets.”

Crowley gave him a grudging nod.

“You… could tell him so yourself,” Aziraphale said hopefully. “We came a long way. You’re a source of great inspiration to him.”

Ivan turned his full attention to Aziraphale and his sour expression changed, a small smile hidden in his tangled beard. “Come,” he said, leading the angel back out of the cavern.

“Going to go and show off your knowledge?” Crowley called after him, scrambling to his feet.

Outside on the track, Ivan turned to face him. “Not going anywhere, demon,” he said. He returned his smile to Aziraphale. “Your man – your Tsar – may see me, but what he seeks from me, I cannot give him. I am only a man. All that he seeks can only come from one greater by far than men and Kings.”

And, of course, Aziraphale positively beamed at him. He set down the chest, opening it and rummaging through it and Crowley rolled his eyes at the hint of a miracle.

“I know you can’t accept the money and gold,” the angel said, producing a miraculously intact bundle of fruits, breads and cheeses that could never have fit inside the chest, “but accept these small tokens. Please.”

Ivan nodded, covering one of the angel’s hands with his own. “Thank you.” He hesitated, glancing down the rocky hillside. “Your Tsar is below?”

 _Yes_ , Crowley thought eagerly, _give in to the pride_.

“He is,” Aziraphale said eagerly. “Will you come?”

The hermit stared pensively down the hillside, then smiled at the angel. “I will offer him my respects, but only from a distance,” he said. “I am not to be revered or treated as some great source of blessing or knowledge. Such things come from God alone. I will see him and he will see me as men. Nothing more.”

“Oh for Satan’s sake,” Crowley groaned. “Come _on_!”

Ivan smiled serenely at him. “Your work is done here, demon.”

Crowley made a face and threw a pebble at him.

Ivan chuckled. “Go and tell your Tsar to wait at the edge of his encampment,” he said. “I will come down soon.” He disappeared back into the crack in the cliff face, his bundle of food cradled in his arms.

“Ugh,” Crowley grumbled.

“He seems a very bright fellow,” Aziraphale offered sympathetically.

“Mm.” Crowley stooped and peered into Aziraphale’s chest. “Always have to watch out for the smart ones.” He poked through the bottles and cups. “Wine? They sent _wine_ for a hermit?”

The angel sighed. “I know, but he was quite determined.”

“Well…” Crowley plucked the bottle out of the chest. “More for us, eh?”

The angel’s lips twitched. “ _Really_ , Crowley…”

For good measure, Crowley picked out two of the goblets and waggled them. “Meet you outside the camp in an hour, eh?” He closed the lid. “Off you trot, then. Got your Tsar to disappoint.”

“Honestly…” Aziraphale sighed fondly, picking up the chest. “Sometimes, I don’t know why I bother with you.”

“Wine!” Crowley called after him, waving the bottle over his head. “Wine and wit!”

“Something,” Aziraphale yelled back, “you frequently lack in equal measures.”

Crowley grinned in the afternoon sunlight.

Always a bit of a bastard, that angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical note:**
> 
> St. Ivan of Rila is one of the main saints of Bulgaria. He was famously an ascetic and a hermit, but did enough miracles that people wouldn't leave him alone. An enthusiastic group of followers even built a monastery nearby and Tsar Peter made a 450km journey to visit him, but for the sake of modesty and to resist pride and conceit, Ivan refused to meet him. They bowed to one another from a distance and Ivan returned most of the gifts Peter sent for him.


	21. 1097 - Nicaea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With the Crusades

Crowley winced as he swung down from the horse.

Every inch of him ached and as tempting as it was to throw himself down on the biggest, fanciest chair in the place to make sure everyone knew who was boss, the pile of cushions on the wooden porch at the end of the courtyard looked much more inviting.

There was still some fighting going on, but he’d had more than enough of it. The siege hadn’t lasted all that long - at least not by his standards. Troy had raised the benchmark on that - but there were always going to be people who didn’t see the sense in surrendering, even when the gates were opened and the flags of the invaders were waving on their walls.

His chain mail rattled and he had to kick a leg to shake loose the end of his tunic, but he got there before anyone else and reached down for the biggest, softest cushion.

Another hand knocked his - bloody slit helmets and their lack of peripheral vision - and he swore rudely in three of his favourite languages.

The other hand didn’t move, then an annoyingly familiar voice inquired, “Crowley?”

Crowley frowned, releasing the cushion to lift off his helmet. “Aziraphale?” The angel was wearing an almost identical uniform to his own, only with a red cross on white instead of a white cross on black. Blond curls poked out from beneath his helmet. “What the Heaven are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing!” Aziraphale waved a gauntlet-covered hand at Crowley’s clothes. “What on earth are you doing in those?”

“What am _I_ doing?” Crowley stared at him in disbelief. “It’s a _war_. S'what my lot do. Death, destruction, chaos, hate. All that. You know? A war.”

Aziraphale’s round face rumpled in indignation. “A _holy war_.”

Crowley groaned inwardly. “Oh, yes. Course. My mistake. _Holy war_ makes it all better. Isn’t just about a bunch of humans going off to kill another bunch of humans with a different shape on their shirt.”

Aziraphale’s lips thinned into a narrow line. “They’re fighting in the name of God.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Which ones? The Christians? Or the Muslims? Or the people who actually lived here before it all kicked off?” He made a face. “S'war, angel. Doesn’t matter what they call it. It’s still going to be a lot of misery and death.”

It was like a kick in the guts when Aziraphale’s face twisted in distress. “But- but it’s for a good reason.”

“Yeah,” Crowley sighed and picked up the cushion. “Both sides always say that.” The angel looked so miserable that Crowley held out the cushion to him.

Aziraphale tried to draw himself up. “You needn’t…”

Crowley curled his lip. “Oh, shut up,” he said, thrusting the cushion into Aziraphale’s arms. “You need it more than I do. Anyway, we’re here now.” He nodded towards the tavern across the square. “Want to get a drink?”

A little of the anxiety left Aziraphale’s expression. “Oh, yes. Please. I would like that.”

Crowley grabbed a smaller cushion for himself, trying to hide his own smile. “You’re paying.”

“I- but _you_ invited me!”

The demon laughed. “How about a round each?” he suggested.

Aziraphale’s face broke into a smile. “That sounds fair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note - the lads are around at the Siege of Nicaea, fighting on the side of the Crusaders, who are on their way to squish the infidels in Jerusalem. While also picking fights with the Byzantine Empire along the way. Because hey, why not?


	22. 1222 – Karabakh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With the Comet (Again) and the Mongol Horde

Sometimes, one had to wonder about the great plan.

Not to question it, of course. To all things there was a season and all that, but sometimes, it was very difficult not to wonder, especially when you were sent to drop a smattering of divine inspiration on the chief strategist of an infamous warlord. Divine could be many things, after all, including wrath and retribution.

Aziraphale slipped out of the yurt and into the coolness of the twilight.

The steppe was quiet, although the crackle of the campfires and the whickering of the horses nearby meant it could never be completely silent.

The long grass brushed against his knees as he walked away from the camp, glancing heavenwards. No, it wouldn’t do to question anything. If the divine plan wanted Subutai to get grand ideas about how to conquer the Rus regions, then that was what he would do.

A flicker on his senses made him glance around, puzzled.

It took him a few moments to identify the source, but as soon as he did, he wondered how he could have missed it.

Some half a mile from the camp, a solitary figure was sitting on a boulder, painted silver by starlight. He wasn’t dressed entirely in local attire. It looked like something from much further east, his red hair long again and braided back into a tight queue.

“Let me guess,” Aziraphale said dryly, as he approached. “You’re here to tempt the Mongols to invade the Crimea as well.”

Crowley didn’t look at him, his eyes fixed on the sky. “No.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Oh?”

The demon nodded towards the sky. His eyes were uncovered for the first time in an age and Aziraphale looked up to see what he was looking at. High above them, on a night sky painted with stars, there was a brilliantly bright star with a blazing tail.

“Oh!” He frowned in confusion. “It’s back again?”

“Mm.” Crowley’s lips twitched in an odd little smile. “Every eighty-odd years, give or take.”

Aziraphale looked back up at the sky. He’d seen it, of course. Anyone who had been around in Judea for a certain birth or seen the texts that came after knew about the star of Bethlehem. “Really?” He shook his head. “I thought– wasn’t that the guiding star?”

Crowley snorted, glancing at him. “Shows what you know, angel. S’been around since the beginning, that one.”

The beginning…

“Oh,” Aziraphale said softly. “So long?”

Crowley nodded. He pulled his feet up, propping them on the side of the rock he was sitting on. “It was due to come,” he said, scooting over and giving the angel space to sit down. “Can’t always see it, but this is a good place for it. Wasn’t so clear out east.”

He wasn’t wrong. With open plains hemmed in by distant mountains, the sky seemed to stretch into infinity, inky dark but for the spray of stars and galaxies that lit the heavens like so many dancing candles.

“Do you–” Aziraphale sat down gingerly on the edge of the rock. “Have you seen it often?”

Crowley nodded. “Often as I can.” He propped his arms on his upraised knees. “You?”

Aziraphale shook his head, wondering how he had overlooked it. “Only once.”

“Yeah?”

“Bethlehem.”

The demon snorted. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” he said, shooting a grin at Aziraphale. “If it’s not edible, you’re not interested.”

“I beg your pardon!”

Crowley laughed, eyes glinting. “And I bet you only noticed it because you had to go and scare the living hell out of those shepherds.”

Aziraphale had the good grace to blush. “Well, sort of. Yes.”

“Mm-hm.” Crowley returned his attention to the sky.

For a while, they sat there in silence.

“It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?” Aziraphale finally murmured. “I sometimes forget, with everything happening down here. The universe, I mean. Something so infinite and so vast and so beautiful.” He shook his head in wondering disbelief. “To think that they were crafted by… well, by people like us, before the world even began.”

When Crowley smiled at the shimmering skies, he looked less like a demon and more like an angel than Aziraphale had ever seen him. “Oh, angel, you have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note: Subutai was Genghis Khan's military strategist and was so efficient, he was often given command of large chunks of the horde's forces. This particular period was when they were coming over the Caucasus mountains and laying waste to parts of the Crimea, specifically heading for the part that is now the Ukraine. The Karabakh area lies in modern Armenia/Azerbaijan.


	23. 1306 - Dumfries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With Robert the Bruce

“You have to think of the greater good, no matter your personal opinion on the matter.”

Robert rubbed at his jaw. “Ye’re counting on the man to be reasonable. They say he may have betrayed me the English.”

“Oh come now!” Aziraphale threw his hands up. “You know better than to listen to idle gossip! I’m fairly sure there are a few proverbs about that!”

The man gave him a cool look. “My men dinnae gossip, Fell.”

The angel flushed sheepishly. “Well, at least he agreed to meet with you and you can talk it out like civilised people.”

“Aye. He should have come to me himself.”

“Someone has to take the first step,” Aziraphale said firmly, trotting along beside the nobleman as fast as his shorter legs would allow. Robert Bruce was uncommonly tall and seemed to forget that it was not so for everyone. “Be the bigger person is what I always say.”

Robert grunted in reluctant agreement, his boots crashing on the stone path that led to the door of the monastery. “Aye. We cannae keep fighting amongst ourselves, no when Longshanks is snapping at our heels.”

“That’s the spirit!” Aziraphale paused behind the man when Bruce paused in the arched doorway of the portico. Bruce bowed his head and crossed himself before striding into the church. Aziraphale fluttered a hand vaguely in front of his chest and hurried after him.

Comyn was waiting already, pacing back and forth before the high altar, daylight striping down across him through the high windows.

“Bide by me, Fell,” Bruce murmured. “I would have a witness.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale agreed. “You just need to make sure he knows who’s boss.”

 

**Some time later – Glasgow**

“What the hell did you do?”

The castle was a big and noisy place and Aziraphale didn’t want to ask how Crowley had managed to find him in the throng. He didn’t even raise his head, his face buried in his hands. “Go away.”

“I don’t think so, angel.” A chair scraped closer and he heard the thump of someone sitting down. “I thought you were meant to be… fomenting peace up here or something?”

Aziraphale peered between two fingers. Crowley was sprawled out in Highland regalia, his hair dragged back and tied with a cord and beard thick on his chin. “Mm,” the angel agreed.

“So what happened?” Crowley demanded, cocking his head. “Longshanks’ people said that Comyn got himself killed.”

Aziraphale twitched, closing his fingers over his eyes again. “Mm.”

The chair scraped a little closer and the demon leaned in, propping his arms on the table. “It’s true then? And was it really Bruce?”

“Mm.”

“But I thought you were working on him– with him– whatever it was you were doing.”

The angel lowered his hands from his face. “I–” He shook his head, then sighed. “I told him he had to show Comyn who was boss.”

Behind the dark circles of his glasses, the demon’s eyes widened incredulously. “An obvious jump straight to murder, that…”

“Quite.” Aziraphale ran a hand over his face. “Honestly, what on earth is _wrong_ with people? We were standing and talking at the altar, a good proper pax, and then Comyn let slip he’d been communicating with Longshanks and Robert just….” He mimed swinging a sword down.

“Wait…” Crowley sounded genuinely shocked. “In a _church_?”

Aziraphale winced. “Mm-hm. Blood on the altar. Everywhere, really. And he was one of the rightful heirs to the throne as well…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s all gone… rather wrong. And now, the Pope is excommunicating him.”

There was a muffled sound from the demon and it took Aziraphale a few seconds to realise Crowley was desperately trying to stifle his laughter.

“It’s not funny, Crowley!”

The demon shook his head, grinning. “Is a bit, angel. Betrayal, murder, a church and an excommunication? You know how to bring down blessings on a man, don’t you?”

Aziraphale glowered at him. “Oh, do shut up.”

The demon mimed buttoning his lip, but he kept sniggering until Aziraphale kicked him and stormed out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note - Robert the Bruce, pre-Kinging, did in fact kill John Comyn in a church. There's a bunch of speculation as to why. Some believe it was to seal the deal on getting the throne, others think Comyn was a sell-out to the English. Either way, Robert offed him in a church. The Pope promptly excommunicated Robert, which meant legally, he couldn't be King. However, the Bishops in Glasgow went "well... what if we said it was okay anyway?" and so RB became King. And eventually, in 1320, they sent the treaty of Arbroath to the Pope going "PLEASE SAY HE'S LEGIT KING! PLEASE! (And also, that's we're independent!)". It didn't really go as planned, but still our Boab is the most famous King of Scotland anyway.


	24. 1324 – Gao

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With the Richest Man in History

The awe-struck crowd were easy targets.

They had gathered outside the town walls, watching the approaching throng. Normally, so many people approaching came in the form of an army, but not this time. They _glittered_. Gold staffs shone in the hands of the heralds. Dozens of camels swayed under their burdens of treasure from the west. The marching men were clad in the richest brocades and silks, even the slaves.

Crowley wove his way between the local spectators with sibilant hissing whispers: how unfair it was one man could have such wealth, this could be a threat and promise of domination, surely no one would notice if I took just one handful of the gold…

A few of the whispers took hold, temptations sinking a little deeper into envious, greedy human minds. One of them, more desperate than the others, thrummed with want. Little more than a kid, Crowley thought. Stick-thin under his ragged tunic.

 _Why not try one of their purses?_ Crowley prompted, slinking around him. _It’s not as if they’re going to notice._

The boy inched closer and closer to the edge of the wide road that led to the main gates. His bony hands were twitching, his ebony eyes widened with awe and fear as the procession swept closer. He was too far forward to get away with it. No one could miss him standing there and even if he wanted to, even if he had the quickest hands west of Jerusalem, he’d never get away with it.

Still, the thought was there and that was…

Crowley frowned as one of the men in the procession broke off and veered towards the crowd.

The quivering boy retreated a fearful step, but the man smiled, his dark brown skin gleaming in the harsh sunlight.

“Here, boy,” he said, pressing a pouch into the lad’s skinny hands. “A blessing for you from my master.”

Crowley wasn’t the only one to lean forward, curious, as the boy fumbled with the pouch strings. He opened it and a whisper of awe and reverence ran through the crowd. Crowley groaned inwardly, feeling the temptation wither away, replaced by wonder.

“Masha’Allah!” The boy gasped, clutching his purse of gold to his chest. He dropped to his knees, bowing his head to the ground. “Thank you, my Lord. Thank you.”

“Damn it!” Crowley groaned, as more of the crowd dropped to their knees, holding out imploring hands. More purses were handed out, the envoys of the Malian Sultan searching out the poorest, frailest and oldest of the beggars.

The demon stood in the middle of it all, feeling like someone had widdled in his wine, as the procession continued by him, accompanied by cheers and welcoming ululations.

It was bloody hard to tempt anyone to naughtiness when some weird King decided to throw gold around like confetti, especially not some religious nut doing – Crowley shuddered reflexively – good deeds on his pilgrimage.

That made him pause.

There did seem a very… divine vibe about the whole thing, some kind of…

And then, among the thousands and thousands of dark-skinned faces, he spotted a pale one – pink-cheeked in the sunlight – with a white turban.

“Oh for Satan’s sake!” He threw his hands up and started towards the angel, who was beaming happily around at the joyful chaos his influence had caused. He was so distracted he didn’t even notice Crowley until the demon swung into step beside him. “Angel.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “Hello, my dear!” His smile faded a little. “What on earth’s the matter? You look very put-out.”

“The matter?” Crowley gestured around. “I was here for a quick temptation and suddenly, it’s raining gold and no one is tempted by _anything_ anymore!”

“Ah!” Aziraphale gave him a helpless smile. “Mansa Musa’s a very generous sort. He insisted that he had a duty of charity, you see. Part of his Hajj. His men took a little more convincing, but everyone’s been very impressed.”

“Impressed,” Crowley echoed with a pointed look around. “He’s _nicked_ my temptations! I can’t tempt someone to be envious when he’s just been handed a bag of gold!”

Aziraphale snorted. “Only if you’re not trying hard enough,” he retorted.

Crowley looked at him in astonishment. “You think you could do better?”

The angel sniffed primly. “If I were you,” he said, “I would look for the people who _didn’t_ get the bag of gold. There isn’t enough for everyone in the city after all.” He clicked his tongue reproachfully. “Honestly. One would think you needed me to do your job for you.”

Crowley glowered at him. “You know that isn’t how it works. I have set targets, just like you, and he _stole_ them.”

Aziraphale looked amused. “I _am_ sorry,” he said, giving Crowley a careful pat on his robed arm. “But I’m here to help Musa. If my good deed outweighs your bad one…” He lifted his shoulders. “One must thwart the wiles of the evil one, wherever one can.”

Crowley took the mature higher ground and blew a raspberry at him.

“Very witty, my dear,” Aziraphale said, laughing. He inched a little closer to Crowley. “Perhaps consider it this way: you applied the temptations as you were ordered. I hardly think you’re to blame if, immediately thereafter, your subject’s circumstances change and the temptation is void.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow at him. “That’s a bit of a–”

But it wasn’t a risky question, was it? It wasn’t even a question at all. Aziraphale was _very_ good at not asking questions while simultaneously implying them with careful wordplay. Oh, he had doubts, of that Crowley was sure. He just took great care never to voice them in the… _wrong_ way.

“A good point,” he finished with a slow grin. “That means my job’s done.”

“You see?” Aziraphale beamed at him. “A bright side after all.”

“You too?” Crowley glanced around. “Seems like they can manage fine on their own for a while.”

Aziraphale clasped his hands together delightedly. “I would say so. And there’s a lovely little inn I’ve heard about just inside the trading quarter that I’m _dying_ to try.”

“Of course there is.” Crowley chuckled as the angel took the lead back through the swarming throng and onwards into the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **History Notes**  
>  Mansa Musa, Sultan of the Mali empire, is on record as being the wealthiest man who _ever_ lived. This particular incident was part of his Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca, which took place over 1324-1325. He was accompanied by 60,000 men dressed in the finest silks and brocades, 12,000 slaves (each of which was carrying 1.5kg of gold) and around 80 camels laden with huge sacks weighing up to 130kg of gold dust each.  
> Throughout his journey, he was reportedly building a mosque every Friday, wherever he happened to stop. He handed out gold to beggars and gave away so much that his generosity completely wrecked the value of gold in the regions he visited, especially in cities like Cairo, Mecca and Medina. Single-handedly, this man accidentally brought about a financial depression that lasted for years after his visit, purely because he did an Oprah with solid gold.
> 
>  
> 
> If you're interested in more random ramblings, [come and find me on tumblr](https://amuseoffyre.tumblr.com/) :D I babble!


	25. 1345-1351 - The Great Mortality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With the Black Death (The artist formerly known as The Great Mortality)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with the main reason Crowley really, _really_ hated the 14th century. There were other reasons (ie. genocidal tyrants, empires collapsing and the like). But this was the big one. Be warned, this chapter is Not a Happy Chapter.

**1345 – Sarai Batu**

 

Flies flitted along the surface of the Volga, the heat leaving a soupy mist clinging to the surface.

Aziraphale fanned himself with his cap as he plodded along with the caravan towards the bridge. The city lay ahead, clay walls and towers stretching up to a sky thick with heavy grey thunderheads. A storm was coming and it was going to be a big one.

Ahead of him, a wagon was trundling slowly onwards, one of its passengers slumping forwards off the open back.

Aziraphale hurried to catch up with it, catching the boy before he could fall off the wagon. The poor creature looked exhausted, blinking in confusion, as Aziraphale gently pushed him back upright against the bales on the cart.

“He has a fever,” the boy’s neighbour said with a sour look at him. “I told him to sit on the front with his father, but he insists he is well enough to sit here and not fall.”

“I will be fine,” the boy said hoarsely, though Aziraphale was far from convinced. The boy was shivering despite the heat and his lips had traces of blood on them. Clearly he hadn’t been drinking nearly enough.

“There are alchemists in the city,” Aziraphale said with a reassuring smile. “They will be able to help.”

All the same, he walked alongside the cart, keeping a careful eye on the boy, as they trundled up onto the bridge and towards the city gates.

The boy’s neighbour, a middle-aged woman who gave the strong impression of maternity, was more than happy to talk, explaining they had come north from Ashtrakhan and had been on the road for days. They had finally gathered enough for their son to attend one of the Medressahs in Sarai Batu and were bringing goods to trade while they delivered him.

“A student?” Aziraphale smiled. “That’s wonderful. They have some marvellous teachers here, I am told.”

The boy smiled wanly. “It is so.”

“And what brings you to the city?” The mother asked.

Technically, he didn’t lie. “I carry messages.” Technically, ‘carry’ was stretching the truth a bit. Delivering was more accurate. For some reason, he had to report on a new and viable piece of land some 200 kilometres further north, though he had not dared to ask why. The word had to be spread organically, he was told, and so naturally, he had let it slip to everyone he could on the caravan.

Why they needed to know such things, he had no idea, when they had a beautiful and expansive city already. Possibly for an expansion. Maybe a brother-city. Still, it wasn’t his place to ask and so, he had not, though it didn’t stop him wondering.

Ahead of them, the gates were opened and the guards were stopping each new arrival.

“Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale leaned around the side of the cart to see one of the guards hurrying towards him, grinning, barely recognisable in his pointed helmet, his red hair hidden. He excused himself to the mother, then trotted towards the guard. “Crowley? What on earth are you dressed as a guard for?”

Crowley made a face. “Business as usual. Go in, be distracting, tempt people, yadda-yadda.” He reached out and plucked as Aziraphale’s dusty sleeve. “What the Heaven are you? Some kind of wandering hermit come down from your cave?”

Aziraphale swatted his hands away. “It’s quite the fashion!”

“Maybe twenty years ago, yeah.” He jerked his head towards the city. “You going in?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I have some messages to deliver.”

“Ugh.” Crowley made a face. “Fun.” He turned, pointing out one of the guards. “That’s Mirza. Tell him I cleared you.”

Aziraphale smiled with relief. It had been a long journey and finally reaching his destination would be a pleasant respite. “Thank you.”

Crowley snorted, waving him away. “Get out of it, angel.”

The guard, Mirza, a sleepy-eyed man who smelled quite strongly of date wine, let Aziraphale exactly as promised. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who needed much encouragement to be tempted. The angel waited on the other side for the cart and the mother and son, pointing them in the direction of the right quarter to find something for the boy’s well-being.

“Enjoy your schooling,” he called after them, as they rolled away, then he turned, sniffing the air. Somewhere nearby, something spicy and delicious was cooking. And it so happened that inns were a perfect place to spread interesting messages, so he followed his nose and his growling stomach in that direction.

 

__________________________________________

 

**1347 – Off the coast of Messina**

 

The ship pitched and Crowley grabbed at one of the trailing ropes to steady himself.

No one shouted out in warning. Only a few of the crew were on the upper deck and they had enough to deal with.

“Where are you, my lad?” He picked his way along the deck, grimacing. There was a lot more slop there than usual. Human waste from the looks of it too. He was about to head up towards the forecastle when a familiar presence prickled at his senses.

Aziraphale? Here?

Crowley glanced at the forecastle, then shrugged. It could wait.

The angel wasn’t on the deck, but it wasn’t a big ship and it didn’t take long to find him. He was standing by the hammock of one of the crew, his hand on the young man’s brow and didn’t even seem to notice the rest of the invalids in their swaying hammocks all around him. The place stank, even more than the average ship’s belly, and that was really saying something. Vomit and slop and waste mixed in a wet slurry on the floor.

“Didn’t know you were coming out this way,” Crowley said, ducking between the wildly swaying hammocks.

Aziraphale glanced back at him. “Last minute secondment,” he said with a pained smile. “I might have left this one to you, otherwise.”

The demon ducked under the hammock, popping up on the other side and peered at the angel’s charge. The young man was whey-faced and sweating, his eyelids fluttering, a thin blanket pulled up close to his chin. “Anything special?”

The angel’s lips pursed. “Nothing more than a minor healing,” he said, and Crowley knew him well enough to hear what was going unsaid. Whole ship of sailors looking a bit peaky and he was only allowed to help one of them. “He needs to be well enough to get himself home.” He glanced over at Crowley. “You?”

Crowley waved vaguely in the direction of the forecastle. “I’m meant to be tempting the captain. Had it in my schedule for a couple of weeks now.”

The angel’s brow furrowed. “Bit odd, both of us being sent to this one ship.”

And even more odd, the fact that Aziraphale was questioning it.

“Who knows with our lot?” Crowley shrugged. “You done?”

“A few more minutes,” Aziraphale demurred. “You…” He waved a hand. “You have work to do. We can find each other on the deck.”

Crowley snaked his way back through the swaying hammocks to the narrow staircase. The ship was swaying and rolling far more than it should have been. Crowley had been on enough ships to tell that things were definitely wrong with it.

It took him several minutes to get up to the forecastle and when he reached the helm, he understood why it all felt so horribly wrong.

The Captain was leaning against the ship’s wheel and looked almost as ill as the man that Aziraphale was tending belowdeck, his face grey and drawn. Blood frothed in bubbles at his nose and mouth, and Crowley could see the cord he’d strapped around himself to hold himself to the wheel, trying to steer his ship home.

His ship full of sick and dying sailors.

Crowley could remember Astrakhan and Istanbul and everywhere in between and the bodies lying where they fell.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, stepping out of ether into solid matter. “You can stop.”

The Captain stared at him, his eyes yellowed and bloodshot. “We’re so close to home.”

“You are,” Crowley consoled gently, “but… but…” A cross swayed at the man’s throat, and oh, it was a dirty trick to play on a dying man, but he let his wings unfurl. “You can rest now. You’ve come so far. It’s time to rest.”

The man swayed helplessly as the wheel turned, his grip too weak to stop it. “Rest,” he echoed.

The cord snapped under Crowley’s touch and he caught the man as he staggered. “Yes,” he said, slipping his shoulder under the Captain’s arm. “Come. Rest. You’ve done well enough.”

It was barely really a temptation, not when the man was so weak and could barely speak let alone resist being laid gently down on his narrow cot. Black-tipped fingers clutched spasmodically at the covers and Crowley sat on the edge of the bed, watching him.

The ship rolled again, veering starboard, and the man shuddered, struggling to rise.

“Rest,” Crowley repeated softly, offering a vision of smooth waters and a still harbour and at last, the man’s taut body sagged against the narrow bed.

He waited a few more minutes, then slipped back out of the cabin, making his way down onto the deck. Aziraphale was standing by the mast, just to the side of reality. No wonder. The angel wasn’t good with ships. Never had been, not since Noah.

He didn’t look happy, even though he’d just performed a miracle, and judging by the way he was watching the suffering crewmen, Crowley could guess why.

Still, he glanced around as Crowley approached. “Finished already?”

Crowley nodded. “We should probably get out of here. Don’t want to raise any questions.”

“Messina?” Aziraphale suggested with a brittle smile. “They have some lovely seafood there.”

“Sounds good,” Crowley agreed at once, just wanting to be away from the ship.

It wasn’t until several months later that he pieced together why they were both there. Why his temptation would have steered the ship off course. Why, at the last minute, Heaven had intervened and sent a blessing to save a man who would bring the ship safely in to port. Why Messina was forever marked as the source of the Great Mortality.

By then, it was too late. By then, the body count was already growing.

In the years that followed, he never told Aziraphale.

 

_______________________________________________________ 

 

**1349 – South of Toledo**

 

“Crowley?”

The demon didn’t look up from the dirt he was kneeling on. “Don’t.”

“You– what are you doing?”

The demon’s head was bowed, his hands lying – filthy – in his lap. “There’s no one left.” He sounded calm. Far too calm for Aziraphale’s comfort.  “I thought someone should… take care of things.”

Aziraphale looked around at the deserted village. He had passed through some ten years earlier on his way south to Seville with a trade delegation. It wasn’t a large village, but it wasn’t small either. Several hundred people who worked the fields, living in closely packed houses.

“All of them?” He couldn’t keep the tremor from his voice.

Crowley nodded, picking at a loose thread in his tunic. “It’s getting worse,” he murmured. “Have you been in London recently?”

Aziraphale shook his head, throat dry. “How bad?”

Crowley looked up at him. “Could be as much as half.”

“Oh Lord…” Aziraphale breathed. The city had been flourishing and he had come to love it a great deal in his many occasions spending time there. It was – as he had told Crowley a few centuries earlier – beginning to feel like home.

“Don’t think they’re much in the mood to help just now, do you?” Crowley didn’t sound angry so much as tired. He ran a hand over his face, smearing dirt on his already filthy cheeks. “I’m– it’s– I’m meant to make things worse.” He laughed bitterly and prodded the grave he was kneeling on. “I was meant to tempt him. Best I could do was tempt him to stop. Told him I’d finish what he was doing for him.”

Finish.

Aziraphale stared around the place that had once been a meadow, but now was lined with makeshift wooden crosses, some barely more than two pieces of wood tied together with string.

The demon looked up at him, eyes shadowed and bleak. “What are you doing here anyway, angel? No one left for you. No miracles to be given. Too late for that.”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale admitted unhappily.

It was all exhausting and there was so little respite, between the Great Mortality burning its way through Europe, the political carnage ripping through Asia and so many little incidents that felt like the first pebbles of avalanches of upheaval.

It was so tempting to press his luck, offer blessing and respite and kindness and miracles where he could, but there were too many angels abroad now. The risk was too great and there were so very many people, far too many for him to save them all.

With visible effort, Crowley struggled back to his feet.

“I need a drink,” he said. “Saw a couple of bottles in one of the houses.”

Aziraphale baulked. “Stealing from the dead?”

The demon’s eyes flashed brief fire, but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared. “It’s not like they’ll need it where they’re going.” He ran his hand over his face again. “C’mon, angel. I need– we need to… not think about all of this. Just for a little bit.”

When Crowley picked his way back in the direction of the village, Aziraphale followed.

 

_________________________________________

 

**1350 – Kutná Hora**

The streets were deserted.

It was too familiar now. People hiding away inside, as if that could stop what was happening.

Crowley made his way through the winding streets of the city. He had no reason to be there. There had been some vague orders about tempting some woman to steal some thing, but he was tired and no one was really keeping score.

Instead, he was winding deeper into the hovels of the poor quarter, following the glowing beacon of energy he knew better than anyone else.

The house was little more than a shack, probably the home to a tightly-packed family. Or maybe it had been once. There were marks etched into the door. A warning to others no doubt. At least they hadn’t gone as far as bricking it up to keep the contagion contained. Some places had been that extreme.

Crowley pushed the door open carefully, the hinges creaking, and ducked inside. It was gloomy enough that he had to remove his glasses, squinting around. Yeah, definitely a former home to a number of people. One of them was still… almost fresh.

“Hello, Crowley.” Aziraphale was sitting on the floor, a small bundle in his arms.

“Angel.” He crossed the floor, ignoring the body on the bed behind the angel. “What’ve you got there?”

Aziraphale looked about as tired as Crowley felt, deep lines scored in his face, but he smiled, small and brittle. “I saved her,” he said, every word enunciated with broken-glass sharpness. “She’ll be _fine_.” He parts the ragged blanket to show a small round face and large, dark eyes.

“Oh, angel…”

“I had one miracle left,” Aziraphale said quietly, as if he hadn’t heard him. “And she was so very scared and… she’s only little. It only took a little one.”

And if Heaven realised…

“Let’s take her somewhere safe then,” Crowley prompted gently. “There’s a church. They’ll take her in.”

He hoped they would, at least. The churchmen had suffered as much as anyone, giving their lives to help their faithful to their rest. But a child, especially one so small would be– they had to see a blessing for what it was, didn’t they? A living child surrounded by so much death had to be a blessing for them.

The church wasn’t far, but Crowley slipped his hand under Aziraphale’s arm anyway. The angel looked utterly spent and the last thing they needed was for him to fall and drop the precious little life he’d risked so much to save.

At the steps of the church, he let Aziraphale go and miracled up a basket and some warmer blankets for the baby. Getting Aziraphale to loosen his grip and let the baby go was another matter, but the angel was too worn out to resist for long and Crowley laid her in the makeshift crib.

“Take her in,” he urged the angel. “Someone will look after her.”

He waited outside in the stretching shadows as the angel disappeared into the gloom of the church. The bells chimed twice before Aziraphale emerged, empty-handed and drawn.

“D’you want company, angel?” Crowley asked quietly, watching him with concern.

Aziraphale nodded stiffly. “Please,” he whispered.

 

__________________________________________________ 

 

**1351 – Smolensk**

 

“Do you think it’s going to end?”

Crowley leaned across the table and obligingly refilled Aziraphale’s cup. “Must do. Can’t keep going forever. It’ll run out of people.”

Aziraphale nodded wearily. He had seen a lot of dreadful things in his time. Humans could be horribly creative. But there was something different about a sickness that was utterly indiscriminate about who lived and who died. It was one thing to despair of man’s inhumanity, but another entirely to know there was absolutely no rhyme nor reason for the millions of dead scattered from Asia and across the breadth of Europe.

“We do what we can. You know that.” Crowley looked down into his own cup.

Aziraphale nodded again. While his miracles were sparser, he blessed where he could, granting respite and peace and soothing what hurts he could. Crowley’s temptations were… unsettlingly similar: tempting people to stop fighting, tempting them to rest, tempting them to indulge in a last piece of bliss before the end.

“When this is done,” he said slowly, “I am going to get so drunk I can’t even see straight.”

“Don’t we do that all the time?” The demon raised his cup in demonstration.

“No, I mean properly drunk,” Aziraphale replied, shaking his head. “Strongest thing I can find. If I don’t regain consciousness for a few days, I will consider my job done.”

Crowley lowered his cup from his lips. “Angel, that sounds like a bloody marvellous idea.”

Aziraphale tried to smile. “You think so?”

“Name a time and a place and I’ll bring the strongest rotgut I can find.” Crowley offered his cup for a toast. “To getting utterly ratarsed?”

Aziraphale tapped his cup to Crowley’s. “And not remembering a second of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes**  
>  \- 1345 - Sarai Batu was the former city of the Golden Horde. It (along with Astrakhan) was considered one of the earliest sources for the disease that came to be known as the Black Death. For some "inexplicable" reason Sarai Batu was abandoned in the mid-14th century and relocated the the New Sarai almost 200km north. I imagine having half your population dropping dead might put you off living somewhere, if you were superstitious.  
> \- 1347 - Messina is viewed as the point where the plague entered Europe, on ships that had come around from the Caspian Sea, as well as passing through places like Turkey and the Dardanelles where the plague had already swept through.  
> \- 1349 - By this point, most of Europe was infected, sick, dead or dying. In London alone, estimates put the deathtoll at around 40-50% of the population.  
> \- 1350 - A mass grave was recently uncovered beneath a church in Kutná Hora with over 1500 bodies dating from this period. That's one grave. There were probably many, many more.  
> \- 1351 - The plague finally burned itself out in Scandinavia and Russia, but not before taking out probably more than 100 million people.


	26. 1421 - Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With Heaven Terrifying Aziraphale

Aziraphale discreetly rubbed his palms on his tunic, praying that the sweat didn’t leave stains.

No matter how many times they had got away with the… Arrangement in the past, he couldn’t help feeling anxious every time he was summoned to give his reports in person in Heaven. He half-expected to find himself in shackles every time.

“–were considered a great success,” Gabriel was saying, beaming. “Our numbers have never looked better.”

“I’m afraid rather a lot of people died,” Aziraphale said, then hastily bit his tongue.

“Mortals,” Gabriel patiently shook his head with a sigh. “That’s what they _do_ , Aziraphale.”

The angel nodded, folding his hands in front of him again, lacing his fingers together. “I know. I just– I thought it might be considered a good thing for…” He coughed and nodded pointedly downwards. “I mean, they _do_ like a body count.”

“What Hell does or doesn’t approve of is not our concern,” Michael murmured. They were dressed in embroidered robes that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Cathedral. Dark haired spilled down over their shoulders, held back from their face by a diadem, as they tilted their head to study Aziraphale, as if he had somehow sinned and fallen short of their approval.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale agreed at once, heart pounding.  Personally, he had tried to remain neutral, but it was hard to be neutral when the so-called “good guys” launched an assault that burned down a building full of women and children. He hesitated, then said, “The demon – Crowley – was there.”

“To be expected,” Gabriel nodded. “This was a major point of conflict and we _won_.”

Aziraphale forced his mouth to smile, although it was hard to consider anything a win when he and Crowley had been left standing in the ashes and rubble, the demon’s face tight with barely masked grief and rage. He couldn’t even be sure which of them had been offering the blessings or leading people into temptation in Žatec. It was too simple now, one or the other, sometimes within the same breath.

And sometimes, Crowley’s miracles were so infinitely beautiful that it was hard to remember that he was a demon at all.

He deserved not to be.

“I know I was only meant to be monitoring his activity,” he began, touching carefully as one does when searching for the source of pain. It was rare for Gabriel to be in such a good mood and the best time to try to take advantage of it. “But do you think– that is to say– wouldn’t it be a real coup d’etat for us, if we could win him back to our side?”

He didn’t know what was worse: the look of incredulity on Michael’s face or Gabriel laughing out loud.

“Win him to our side?” Michael said, disdain dripping from every word. “He’s _Fallen_ , Aziraphale. Why in the name of the Almighty would we _want_ him on our side?”

“Surely all creatures are worthy of the Almighty’s grace…” he faltered as the two archangels exchanged looks.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said with gentle condescension. “We understand your intentions are good, but he’s Fallen already. Why bother with someone who chose to reject us? To reject this?” He gestured around the glistening marble halls of Heaven. “Something like that isn’t worth saving. I doubt they would even consider him a significant loss. Would you waste your valuable time on something like that?”

Aziraphale tugged self-consciously at the edge of his tunic. “No. I suppose.” He forced himself to raise his eyes back to Gabriel’s. “But if I could only _try_ –”

“If you want to see what Hell does to him, by all means,” Michael said mildly. “They don’t like traitors down there.”

“Tr-traitors?” Aziraphale blanched. “But–”

“If you even try to draw him back into the light,” Michael said with the tone of one speaking to a child, “they will see it as a betrayal.”

Draw him into the light. By, for example, performing miracles that an angel should, by rights, be performing.

“I– I see.” It felt like poking a sleeping lion, but he couldn’t help asking, “What on earth would they do to a disobedient demon anyway?” He forced an uncertain laugh. “Can you be cast out of Hell?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Nothing a little baptism wouldn’t take care of.”

“Baptism?” Aziraphale frowned. “That doesn’t sound so…” His heart dropped like a rock. “But baptisms are– that would mean–”

Michael gave him an impatient look. “Yes. Holy water. Demons are not as forgiving as we are.” They shot a glance at Gabriel, who nodded slightly. “That will be all, Principality.”

“But–” Aziraphale’s words died in his throat at the cool expressions on the archangels’ faces. He forced another brittle smile, bowing, his fists clenching around the edge of his tunic. “Of course. Thank you for your time.” He backed away, hurrying for the staircase that led back down to earth, trying to ignore the deafening thunder of his heart in his ears.

______________________________

**1427 – Valais**

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Aziraphale froze where he was, stooped over the poor shackled woman on the floor. There was little to be done for her but the small mercy of a peaceful death. He drew away the pain of her broken bones and soothed the terror and rage enough to let her rest in her last moments. When his wings unfurled, bright and brilliant, he felt her joy and relief, then the quiet as her soul slipped away.

“Angel.”

He didn’t – he couldn’t turn. “I don’t think it’s wise that we continue,” he forced out, knowing how much more difficult it would be to say those words to Crowley’s face. “With the Arrangement, I mean.”

There was a small explosive hiss of a breath from behind him. “And why’s that?”

He folded his wings in, taking comfort from the weight of them against his back. His hands were shaking unbearably. They had to stop. They _had_ to. He had been so worried about his own fate that he hadn’t even thought about Crowley’s and now that he knew…

“It’s too dangerous.”

Crowley groaned. “Not this old chestnut again!”

Aziraphale’s hands twitched by his sides and he curled them into fists to keep them still. “You– you never told me the risk you were taking!”

The demon fell silent. “What are you on about?” he finally asked.

Aziraphale took a shuddering breath, then turned to face him. “You never told me what they would do to you, if you were caught.”

Crowley was still as a statue, the darkness of his tunic and cloak blending into the shadows of the cells. “And?” he finally said.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Is it true? That they would–” The word caught in his throat, hard and sharp and shocking him with how painful it was. “Would they really… kill you?”

The demon looked away from him with a shrug. “Maybe. Never asked.”

“But it’s a chance?”

“Could be.” He hooked his thumb through his belt. “Better not get caught, eh?”

Aziraphale stared at him, feeling as if the world had been tugged from beneath him. “No!” He felt sick with horror at the thought. Not simply because it was the death of a living creature, but the fact that it was Crowley. “I couldn’t bear it if– that you could be–” He shook his head. “We _can’t_! Not for the sake of saving time.”

He realised that the demon was looking at him again, a strange expression on his face. By the flickering torchlight, his lips twitched. “Aw, angel. You _do_ care.”

Aziraphale flushed. “I _don’t_! I only– it’s just that–” He threw up his hands. “Why are you so insufferable?”

That made Crowley grin. “Because it’s fun?” He sauntered closer. “Anyway, you’ve got nothing to worry about. They don’t _care_ what we do, do they? Four centuries we’ve been at it now and not so much as a sound out of them.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale had to agree. “But there could always be a first time.”

The demon was less than an arm’s length from him, still grinning. “Not if we’re careful. And I don’t know about you, angel, but I’m _always_ careful.”

Aziraphale was mortified by how undignified his snort was. “Well, we both know that’s a lie.”

“Eh.” Crowley shrugged cheerfully. “Even if I’m not, I’m still very good at convincing them I’m damn good at what I do up here.” He tilted his head, his grin turning into a crooked smile. “Come on, angel. Can’t get cold feet on me now. You know this is good for both of us.”

“It _is_ very dangerous,” he protested, but he could feel his resolve giving way.

“Everything’s dangerous to someone,” the demon pointed out reasonably. “That’s living, isn’t it?” He pulled down his glasses, peering over the rims. “What do you say? I’ll let you take Ronda, if you want? I was meant to be heading that way next week.”

Aziraphale almost whimpered aloud. The last time he’d visited Spain, they’d had some of the sweetest, most delicious oranges he had ever tasted. And it was orange season as well. “Maybe once more,” he said. “For old time’s sake.”

“One more.” Crowley beamed at him. “Course. That’s all.”

Much later, Aziraphale would wonder when he had become such a good liar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> 1421 - The Hussite wars were ongoing. Early reformation movements, which the Catholic church decided to quash as fast as possible. Lots of bloody sieges and battles, plus the economic decimation of swathes of Bohemia and the surrounding countries which lasted well into the next century.  
> 1427 - the Swiss witch trials which were - in a roundabout way - the results of the knock-on effect of the various Hussite wars and the instability that came after. About 8 years of trials and executions, although can't find a lot of detail about the numbers.


	27. 1431 - Rouen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With Jeanne D'Arc

A bottle thudded on the table. 

Aziraphale looked up, an angry warning dying in his throat. 

Crowley was standing over him, his hand still wrapped around the neck of the bottle. "Thought you might need this," he said.

Aziraphale nodded stiffly. "Thank you." He motioned to the empty seat opposite him. The inn was thronging with people, but he had wanted to be left alone and made it so. No one had approached his alcove for the past hour. 

Too many of the people were talking excitedly about everything that had just happened. The scent of smoke and burning flesh was still hanging on the air and he just wanted to... not think about it for a moment. 

Crowley set two cups down on the table, then pulled the cork from the bottle and poured a stream of scarlet wine into each of the cups. He must have realised that Aziraphale had no words, because he didn't say anything. He rocked back on the stool, balancing precariously on two legs, and propped his shoulders against the wall behind him.

It took two full cups before Aziraphale could release a shaking sigh. 

"Shouldn't have happened," Crowley said quietly. He had his head tilted back, his shorter hair fanning across his shoulders. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling. "Not like that. Not condemned for all the things she didn't do."

"No." Aziraphale reached for the bottle, refilling his cup.

Crowley pushed himself off the wall, the legs of the stool thumping down on the flag-stoned floor. "Why are you even here?" he demanded. "S'not like this bit was anything to do with you and yours."

Aziraphale's lips trembled and he stared down into the cup. "Oh, but _she_ was." He forced himself to look up and met Crowley's confused eyes. "I met her, you see."

Crowley recoiled. "Oh.... oh, I'm so sorry, angel."

Aziraphale had to lower his eyes. "She was a... good girl. Very determined. Very... very brave."

"And they did that to her..." Crowley leaned over the table, his hand hovering over Aziraphale's wrist as if he wanted to grasp it. His fingers twitched and he drew back. "S'there anything I can do?"

Aziraphale felt drawn out, exhausted. "Haven't you done enough?"

Crowley flinched as if Aziraphale had slapped him. "This wasn't _my_ doing," he hissed, hunching over the table. "I didn't have anything to do with..." He jerked his hand towards the door. "That was _all_ them."

Aziraphale stared at him. His cup was trembling between his hands. "Really?" he whispered.

"Yes!" The demon shook his head, staring at Aziraphale in disbelief and indignation. "D'you really think I would do something like that?"

It should have been an easy answer. Angels and Demons. Heaven and Hell. Good and Bad. But the men who had laid the sentence, the men who had condemned her, the men who had burned the poor child had all claimed to be doing so in the name of God and goodness and all things holy.

"I don't know," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I really don't know what to think anymore."

Crowley's expression crumbled. "Oh angel..." He threw up one hand and the world went still and quiet around them. "I didn't do this," he said, so softly, as if he was afraid that Aziraphale might lash out at him again. "I promise you. I wouldn't lie to you." His brow furrowed up, his lips twisting as they always did when he was thinking on something. "Tell you what. If anything like this comes up again... how about I step in and cover for you? So you don't have to see it?" He looked like he was trying to smile encouragingly. "I mean, I was an angel before. I can pretend to be one again. S'like falling off a log."

For a moment, Aziraphale wanted to weep.

"We oughtn't." His throat felt raw and sore. "And I can't ask you... not to deal with such dreadful things."

Crowley's mouth spread in a grin, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Oh, I've seen worse. I'm a demon, after all." The grin faded away as he leaned forward, propping his forearms on the table. "I _can_ do it for you, angel. All you have to do is ask."

"But _why_?"

Crowley's mouth turned up sadly at one side. "Because you shouldn't have to."

Much later, Aziraphale would lie to himself and insist that he only nodded in agreement because of the wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes - Jeanne d'Arc was allegedly visited by several angels while still a young teen. Her trial and conviction was a farce because they wanted a reason to kill her, which is why she was later beatified by a Pope.


	28. 1437 - Dunbar & Samarkand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With Two Astronomy Nerds

**1437 – Dunbar**

Of all the places to meet, the new Royal court was a useful one. There were so many people milling around, so many layers upon layers of spies, that no one was ever going to notice a couple of people standing near the cobbled roadside, watching the informal procession of the new child-king to the castle.

“You know I hate to be a bother…”

Crowley waved away Aziraphale’s words. “You know the deal, angel. What’s up?”

The angel’s face twisted in the familiar mess of anxiety, guilt and puzzlement. Centuries of the Arrangement now, and still, he acted like it was a moral conundrum every time. “Ah… I have a particular place…”

“Mm?” Crowley fiddled with the high collar of his tunic. The embroidery scratched something rotten.

“And it’s nothing… unpleasant like Rouen…” The angel twisted his hands in front of him. “Only, the last time I was there, I ran into the fellow’s grandfather and…” He shrugged, a little helplessly. “I’d rather not see if his grandson is anything like him.”

That made Crowley look at him, curious. Aziraphale had a habit of wandering into situations that were dangerous without even realising, but it was rare for him to try to avoid anyone. Or the descendant of anyone. “Who’s that, then? The grandfather?”

Aziraphale’s features twitched. “Timur.”

“Ohhhhhh…” Crowley winced in sympathy. “Yeah. I remember him. Grumpy chap. Gammy leg. He’s the one who made his men stampede their horses over–”

“The children, yes.”

“And what he did in Baghdad with the walls–”

“Mm.”

“And those huge piles of–”

“Mm hm.” Aziraphale looked surprisingly pale for an ethereal being. 

Crowley had briefly passed through the empire from time to time. He didn’t need to do much. It was hard to tempt people to do evil when said people had a very enthusiastic boss who would wipe out a whole city just to make his point and then make pyramid-shaped art installations of the severed heads just in case anyone missed the memo.

Still, it was a nice black mark against Crowley’s records when he technically sort of maybe kind of implied to Head Office that his presence in the empire was instrumental to the bloodshed.

“And you’re meant to be dealing with his grandson?”

“And heir.” Aziraphale nodded stiffly. “I’m sure he isn’t as bad, but I’d… I’d rather not check.”

Crowley wasn’t surprised. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” he said, stepping back – and only a little bit deliberately – onto some daft peasant’s toes. The swearing was like music to his ears. “You go and harangue the Douglases and I’ll consider us even.”

“The Douglases?” The angel’s eyes flicked back to the castle. “Oh, Crowley. Not more discord in Scotland.”

The demon shrugged. “Don’t look at me,” he said, grinning as he spun away to let the crowd swallow him. “They’re the ones who like a fight.”

_________________________________

**1437 – Samarkand**

It was safe to say, Crowley thought, that Timur’s grandson was nothing like him.

Aziraphale was going to pitch a fit when he found out that he’d put himself onto temptation duty instead of coming to meet a fellow swot. They would get on like a house on fire as well, all art and literature and poetry and everything that made Aziraphale go daft and soft.

And if Crowley was to be completely honest with himself, he was a bit impressed.

It wasn’t often that he got a chance to wander about an observatory. The kind of scientists that were prone to temptation weren’t the ones who looked at the heavens.

The building was massive, three levels above ground, every inch of the exterior decorated in enamel and tile. It was a glittering blue gem sitting on top of a hillside, visible for miles around. The inside was as impressive, with more levels below the ground, a huge sextant curving up from the lowest level to the upper ones with steps lining either side, the biggest quadrant Crowley had ever seen, shelves everywhere, metal tools and devices and things Crowley couldn’t identify but that went _ding_ when he tapped them.

And there, the man himself was taking measurements and writing notes, his bamboo pen scratching rapidly across already crowded sheets of pulped paper. He didn’t look like much, robed and turbanned like every other man in the area. His clothes were a bit fancier, which was to be expected for the ruler of an Empire, but otherwise, he could have been anyone. Middle-aged, angular face, dark, almond-shaped eyes, but Crowley recognised the expression on his face as he worked. He’d seen it on the angel’s face a thousand times.

Especially, that annoyed frown that was furrowing his brow.

“Problem?” he inquired, peering down at the paper in Ulugh Beg’s hand. Nah. Not Ulugh Beg. This wasn’t the so-called Great Ruler. This was the human behind the title. The scientist and the man. Mirza Muhammed Taraghay.

The man blinked as if he hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t alone. For a split-second, a puzzled look ghosted over his face, as if he couldn’t quite place Crowley then he bowed his head in greeting. “The model is incorrect.”

“The model?”

Mirza waved one hand towards a low table, scattered with notes and drawings. A book – a translation of one Crowley remember well from the good old days – was lying open: Ptolemy’s observations and mapping of the heavens.

“He was the master of his craft,” Mirza sighed, frowning and writing another note, “and yet we find that things are not as fixed as he stated.”

Crowley crouched down by the table, his robes spreading around him, and propped one arm on the surface. It only took him a few seconds to see what they were doing, as if he couldn’t guess from the huge sextant and all the other gadgets the man had lying around.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing up at the man. “And?”

Mirza looked at him, puzzled. “What is your meaning?”

Crowley shrugged, rocking back on his heels. “Times change, don’t they?” He pulled another book closer, flipping it closed to look at the cover. This one was al-Sufi’s _Book of Fixed Stars_. Credit to the man, Ulugh Beg was thorough in his research. “I mean, Ptolemy and al-Sufi weren’t wrong, but think about it. How long ago were they looking at the sky? Centuries back? Millennia? This city wasn’t even here then. Little village in the middle of nowhere and now look at it. You think the heavens are any different?” He shook his head, dropping it back on the table. “Harder to see it because it’s so far away, but times change everywhere, not just on earth.”

Mirza stared at him. “The stars have advanced from the points at which they observed them…”

Crowley nodded. “S’bound to happen,” he said, pushing himself back to his feet. “Everything’s kind of… mutable, isn’t it? Changes depending on where and when you look at it. It’d be a bit arrogant to think that everything stays fixed just because some human in Egypt or Persia said so.”

“Yes!” Mirza’s face broke into a brilliant smile. He shook his head, laughing, as if he couldn’t believe the thought hadn’t occurred to him before. “So simple!” He hastily scratched some more notes down on his papers. “Thank you, my friend. Fresh eyes grant clearer sight.”

Crowley shrugged with a crooked smile. “You’d already figured it out,” he said. “You just hadn’t realised it yet. Just needed a bit of perspective.”

The man nodded. “It is often so,” he agreed happily. “Come, I will show you the model.”

Well, okay maybe it wasn’t work, but how was he meant to resist when a human wanted to show him how well they were doing? And it was about the stars as well. He’d always had a bit of a soft spot for those.

And anyway, maybe if he hung around a bit longer, he could work out some way to give Mirza the blessing or whatever the Hell he was meant to be sending him from Aziraphale.

_____________________________

**1442 – Zurich**

“Psst!”

Crowley looked around.

In the dark, it was hard to see who had made the sound Puzzled humans looked back at him until he spotted someone who definitely wasn’t wearing the uniform of the Swiss Confederacy waving urgently between some tents. Said person was wearing a long cloak which didn’t in any way hide the round belly and the Habsburg uniform.

“Ang–” he began, then took stock. The daft angel had come into the enemy’s camp in his own side’s uniform. Drawing even more attention to him was a bad idea. He grinned at the soldiers on either side of him. “Scuse me. Call of nature.”

He hurried over between the tents, hopping over guidelines and ducking under ropes. “What the Heaven are you playing at?” he demanded as soon as he was close enough.

Aziraphale beamed at him. He had a small glowing ball of light cupped in his hand. “I wanted to say thank you.”

“Er… okay.” Crowley frowned. “For what?”

“Ulugh Beg!”

A memory surfaced of Samarkand. Five years ago. When he was meant to be there, doing the angel’s job for him. What had he done…

Oh. Shit.

He _hadn’t_ done anything. They’d ended up arguing about constellations for six hours instead. It was a pretty good night all things considered. Apart from the fact he had apparently forgotten to do the thing he’d been there for in the first place.

“Er…” he began. There were yells from the other side of the camp and Crowley hastily snapped his fingers, hiding them from sight, just in case. “Refresh my memory?”

Aziraphale gave him a fondly exasperated look and dug about under his cloak, then produced a book with a flourish. “Look!”

Crowley gingerly took the book as if it might explode. The script on the front was in Persian. “Zij-i Sultani?”

Aziraphale tapped a scrap of fabric sticking out from between the early pages. “I found it in a library when I was in Baghdad and had to show you,” he said eagerly. “Look!”

Crowley leafed through the pages, blinking. The author was none other than Mirza – Ulugh Beg – himself. It was an astronomical study, charting the stars and their courses and so much more. He flicked to the page that Aziraphale had marked.

“There!” Aziraphale pointed.

Crowley tilted the book, squinting by Aziraphale’s light and read the paragraph he was pointing to.

“This motivated us to observe them ourselves, with the assistance of Divine Providence, and we have found that they were advanced from the epoch…” he trailed off, remembering the start of their conversation. “Oh no.”

“Divine providence!” Aziraphale looked like a doting parent. “You did a marvellous job!”

“But divine providence?” Crowley screwed up his face. “No, no, no. Eurgh. I’m not divine.” He shuddered. “Yuck. Makes me feel all dirty.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks were dimpled and his eyes were dancing. “Well, _he_ certainly thought you were.”

“ _He_ ’s a bloody idiot,” Crowley grumbled, leafing through the book, every word of it belying his description of the author. One side of his mouth crooked up. “Can I borrow this?”

The angel blinked at him in surprise. “Why– of course you can!”

Crowley ran his thumb along the edge of the page. Mirza wasn’t bad as humans went and they’d had a lot of fun that night. It’d be interesting to see if any of their… heated discussion had made it onto the pages.

Somewhere in the distance, a cannon fired.

“Oh dear…” Aziraphale murmured.

“Eh.” Crowley waved a hand, sitting down on a stool beside the tent, eyes on the book. “Let them get on with it.”

“ _Crowley!_ ”

Crowley didn’t even notice if the angel stayed or left, lost in the book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> Dunbar - This was shortly after the coronation of one of the many child-rulers of Scotland. We had a knack of Kings dying silly and dramatic deaths and leaving toddlers on the throne. Wee King Jamie was part-tool, part-hostage for chunks of his life.
> 
> Samarkand - Ulugh Beg was a warrior king, but is better known for being a scholar, scientist, poet and mathematician. His thesis on the movement of the stars and charting the heavens was considered ground-breaking, pre-dating Tycho Brahes by around a century. Translations of his book continued to be used as reference until the 19th century at universities in the west.  
> He was also infamously determined to get everyone he could educated and set up multiple Medressahs across his empire, which provided a diverse education for young scholars. He even ensured they were paid for with taxes on local businesses. And because he was a nerd, he made sure they were all decorated with stars, because he could.


	29. 1493 – Rome

“So…” Crowley slid onto the seat opposite Aziraphale, setting a pair of cups down on the table. The inn was quiet in the heat of the afternoon, most sensible people holed up somewhere cooler. Especially with the stupid fashion for wearing velvet. Honestly, what kind of idiot came up with that in Italy in the summer? “How did it go?”

The angel was sitting with one elbow propped on the table, his face resting in his hand. “Oh, I expect you know precisely how well,” he said gloomily.

“Mm.” Crowley poured each of them a generous cup. “Not exactly… proper Pope material, is he?”

Aziraphale peered between his fingers. “Oh, you are certainly understating the matter there, aren’t you?” He sighed and lowered his hand. “For Heaven’s sake, you can’t just move all your bastards into the Papal palace!”

“I don’t think he got the memo,” Crowley said helpfully. He nudged the cup across the table to the angel. Morally grey people always made him a bit twitchy and no small wonder. For a morally-grey angel who was bloody good at carrying out temptations, he was also pretty damn good at lying to himself about it. Still, there was one way to always make him feel better about his little Bad Deeds. “Good of you to deal with it for me. Last time I had to go anywhere near him, my feet looked like boiled ham for three weeks.”

As expected, Aziraphale’s expression brightened a little. “To be quite honest,” he said, picking up the cup, “I don’t even think either of us really needed to be there at all. That’s a man who can create himself a dozen temptations without so much as a blink.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Did he get a new mistress yet?”

“Mm. The poor girl is barely much older than his daughter.” He took a fortifying sip of the wine and sighed, his taut shoulders sagging a little. “I can’t imagine what she sees in him, especially not when she’s already married.”

Crowley couldn’t help snorting. “You know humans,” he said. “They always like the forbidden. You don’t get much more forbidden than shacking up with the Pope.”

The angel winced. “Must you put it so crudely?”

Crowley grinned at him. “Could’ve done worse.”

Aziraphale did that thin-lipped, pretending-to-be-annoyed thing. “Oh, I’m well aware.”

“Anyway, probably isn’t like she really had a choice,” Crowley added, making a face. “You know what men are like. If they fancy someone, they tend to ignore all the rules anyway.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale made a discontented sound. “And he’s meant to be God’s representative on earth…”

“Weeeeeeeeeeeeell…” Crowley couldn’t help himself, “God _did_ knock up a married teenager, according to their books, so he’s technically sort of following divine exam–”

“Crowley!”

He grinned, all teeth. “What? I’m just saying. They called him God’s son, didn’t they? Ergo God and his mum…”

The angel pursed his lips. “You _knew_ them. The boy _and_ his mother. Aren’t you– don’t you know it’s rude to speak ill of the dead?”

“Yep,” Crowley said cheerfully. “And demon, so nyah! Rude is my job description.” Maybe it was the wine talking. It was pretty strong stuff. Anyway, wasn’t like his old mate was going to complain. “And anyway, I could poke fun at him. I did it to his face, why wouldn’t I keep on doing it?”

“Yes, but…” The angel jerked his thumb urgently skywards.

Crowley peered upwards. “Don’t think She minds,” he said. “I mean, s’in their books, isn’t it? Son of God and all that.” He licked a drip of wine from the rim of the cup. “Don’t see Her smiting any of them for it, do you?”

Aziraphale tutted impatiently. “You’re incorrigible.” He took another mouthful from his cup. “Will you be needed there again?”

“Nah.” Crowley leaned over the table to refill his cup. “Once you get the momentum going, it’s usually a pretty quick slide into corruption and degeneracy and, like you said, he doesn’t need much help.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Unless your side have some plans for him.”

Aziraphale frowned at his cup. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“S’fine then, isn’t it?” Crowley raised his cup. “Now, we have wine to finish and I found a tavern down the road that does something you might enjoy with fish.”

The worried furrow in Aziraphale’s brow smoothed out at once. “Oh?”

“Mm.” Crowley topped up his cup. “There’s oil and some kind of spicy thing involved. Didn’t ask too many questions.” He raised his eyebrows. “Got a little time to spare, angel?”

And of course, because he knew the angel well enough by now, he could see the feigned indecision, the huff, the twitching of the hands and then the inevitable. “Oh, I could take time for a _little_ look. It can’t do any harm, can it?”

Crowley reached for the pitcher of wine. “ _Course_ not.” He refilled their cups again. “Cheers!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historic Notes**
> 
> Pope Alexander is more famous as the head of the infamous Borgia family. He had a fleet of bastard children with his mistress and when he became Pope, he had them all moved into the adjoining palace. He also decided he quite fancied a young lady called Giulia and, despite her husband, had her installed in his daughter's household so he could visit at his leisure. She had a child, though there's speculation whether it was his or her husband's.


	30. 1503 - Florence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With The Mona Lisa

"What do you think?"

Crowley cocked his head to one side, then the other. "I don't know. She looks a bit... stuck-up in that one, doesn't she?"

Leonardo sighed, shaking his head as he lifted the canvas down. "Is no good. Her expression, it is too... mysterious. She smiles like a woman who knows a secret but will not tell you."

Crowley scratched the end of his nose. "I'm a bit like that myself."

Da Vinci gave him a doubtful look. "You could not keep a secret if your life depended on it, Salai."

Crowley made a face at him. "D'you have to call me that? Unclean one? Makes me sound like a privy that leaked everywhere."

Leonardo's bushy eyebrows rose. "I know what you are, Salai, and the thoughts you put into my head."

" _Crowley_. How many times do I have to tell you?" 

Leonardo screwed his face up. "Very well. _Crowley_." 

He jabbed a finger into Leonardo's side. "And don't blame me for all the thoughts in your head. Some of those are your own fault. I didn't make you shag your way through the male population of Florence. You did that on your own."

That made the artist wince. "You encouraged me."

Crowley grinned at him. "I'm a very encouraging kind of person." He waved a hand. "Come on. I'm not here to reminisce about your orgies. You wanted me to look at your sketches."

Leonardo nodded and put another canvas up on the stand. "This one... this one, I like."

Crowley took a step back to examine it. "Oh, _yes_. That's much better." The expression was softer with small dimples in the cheeks and for a fleeting moment, he could almost picture her with shorter, blonder, curlier hair. "Not so much of the smirking on this one. Almost even looks friendly."

"Ah." Leonardo's face fell. "Her husband would not be happy about that."

Crowley frowned at him. "Why not? Who doesn't want a nice, friendly face to look at once in a while?"

Leonardo winced. "This one is for his... ah... private chambers."

"Ohhhh!" Crowley grinned and snapped his fingers. Instantly, a second painting appeared on the stand beside Leonardo's, with a lot more flesh and far fewer clothes. "Maybe that's the kind of thing he's looking for. Perky, isn't she?"

"Salai!" Leonardo hastily snatched the painting off the stand. "No! She's a _respectable_ lady."

Crowley snorted. "First respectable lady I ever met went around without a stitch on." 

"Maybe in England, that is so."

The demon gave him a slow smile. "Oh, I'm not talking about England." He turned his attention back to the sketch. "Maybe you should go with the smirky one. If he wants something to get himself going, mysterious might be the right kind of thing."

"You think so?"

Crowley shrugged. "How am I meant to know what a human man wants to do with his wife?" He nudged Leonardo and grinned. "I've got a great idea. When you paint her, imagine she's laughing at the size of his..." He waved vaguely at the front of his hose. 

The artist stifled a snort of laughter. "You are a terrible man, Crowley."

Crowley beamed at him. "I try my best." He considered the painting on the easel. "If you ever want rid of that one, I wouldn't mind having it."

Leonardo looked at him. "You know I keep as much of my art as I can."

"I know." He shrugged. "But if you ever decide you don't want it lying about anymore..." He gazed at it, reminded far too much of a flustered, ruefully smiling angel. Daft to see that in a rough sketch of an Italian noblewoman. "I like it."

"Perhaps," Leonardo murmured. "But not now."

"Nah." Crowley nodded. "Not now." He nudged Leonardo again. "I can wait. I've got all the time in the world."

 

**2019 - London**

"Crowley..."

Crowley knuckled at one eye as he wandered into his study. It was too bloody early to be up and he hadn't had any coffee and there was an angel standing in his office, looking both awe-struck and offended at the same time. "Yeah?"

"How the _hell_ did you get an original Da Vinci?"

Oh, yeah. 

He'd forgotten all about the fact that Aziraphale had never seen the inside of his flat before, or any of the things he kept there. 

"He left it to me in his will." 

"HE DID _WHAT_!?!?!" 

Crowley blinked sleepily at him. Aziraphale was puffing up, all pink-cheeked and outraged and oh, the envy was rippling off him in tasty waves. The vices always looked so good on him and his indignation made Crowley grin. "I never told you about my stint in Florence, did I?" 

__The angel was on him in a blink. "Tell. Me. Everything."_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes - so here's the thing: Leonardo Da Vinci had an assistant whose nickname was Salai, which means "unclean one" or pretty much is slang for "the devil". He also was considered a rogue, a villain and generally a trouble-maker, but he was left a bunch of stuff by Leonardo who adored him. He also painted a topless Mona Lisa. Oh, and he looked like this (sunglasses, my addition):
> 
>  


	31. 1517 – Wittenberg

**1517 – Wittenberg**

The candle flame wavered when the door opened.

Martin glanced over his shoulder, recognising at once the fair-haired man in the doorway. “Brother,” he said, closing his Bible and turning on his chair. “Welcome.”

The man was a local Franciscan by the name of Brother Francis. He was a kind man and had often brought Martin remedies to help settle his aching belly. “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said as he stepped into the room, his hand carefully sheltering his own candle.

Martin shook his head. “Not at all. Come, come. I appreciate the respite.”

Brother Francis smiled and closed the door behind him. “You have heard, I expect, about Tetzel?”

Martin nodded with a grimace. Indulgences, being bought and sold like meat at the marketplace. Not simply absolution for sins past, but for a particular price, any future sin of your choice. Buy salvation from purgatory and carte blanche for mortal sins for a handful of coins. It had begun some years earlier, when the Pope claimed it was with the purpose of building a great house for the worship of God in Rome, and now, it had reached the fringes of Wittenberg.

“A number of my parishioners have attended his… gatherings,” he said. “They believe what they are told. That salvation can be bought so easily.”

Brother Francis crossed the room on silent feet and sat on the edge of the narrow bench by the wall. “You have spoken on the matter before,” he murmured, his pale eyes shining like the sea by the flicker of his candle. “Several times.”

Martin turned his gaze back to his desk. He had, on numerous occasions, and had been sorely reproofed because of it. Plenary indulgences were the domain of the Pope, who was in turn God’s representative. To question them was to question the Pope and to question the Pope…

Some called it heresy.

“You know it’s wrong,” Brother Francis said softly, as if he was not dancing dangerously close to the heretical himself. “We both know repentance can’t come from an exchange of money. If it were, our Lord would never have spoken of the camel passing through the eye of a needle.”

“Be careful, Brother,” Martin murmured, staring blindly at the blank paper before him.

Brother Francis said nothing for a moment, the only sound the snap and whisper of the candles.

Outside, the wind was murmuring against the shutters and the night was dark.

Martin tapped the tip of his finger against the desk.

“They believe the scraps of paper will unlock the gates of purgatory,” he said suddenly, spitting the words out before he could bite down on them. “That they need not repent because that paper will grant them absolution.”

“You know that’s wrong.”

He slanted a guarded look at Brother Francis. The man was as calm as ever. “These are– To think such things– To say such things…”

“Even if you know they’re wrong?” Brother Francis leaned forward. “Your people, they believe they are bought and paid for. They _believe_ that. If it isn’t true, where will that leave them when their time comes and they have lived a life without repentance?”

Martin met those fire-brightened eyes. “They call it heresy to speak of such things.”

“And yet, they may well damn thousands to fill their coffers with the price of ink and paper.” Brother Francis held his gaze, implacable and calm and fathomless. “Your people don’t know better. They believe what they have been told. They believe that they can be forgiven so easily.”

They did. They all did. They had no cause to repent, they said. Why did they need to do anything more when they could seek a plenary indulgence?

“They call it heresy,” he repeated, holding it like a talisman.

“Is it?” Brother Francis asked quietly. “To speak the truth? To tell them to better themselves and their fellow men? To ascribe the mercy of forgiveness and salvation to the throne, where it belongs?” He shook his head, the glow about his fair hair like a halo. “Remember the commandments, my friend. Remember Christ’s words and his covenant.”

Martin had to look away. “If I… say anything, it will have a cost.”

“The cost,” Brother Francis said gently, “of redemption?” He rose on light feet and approached, laying his hand on Martin’s shoulder. The man was only a Friar, but it felt like the holiest of benedictions. “Do the right thing, my friend, whatever you believe that to be.”

Martin didn’t look at him, didn’t speak, and Brother Francis stepped away.

The candle wavered again as the door opened and closed.

Martin touched the blank sheet in front of him. The world was still and quiet and the night pressed up against the windows. They were in the dark. They were all in the dark and if someone did not raise a candle, light their way…

He picked up his quill and started to write.

“Out of love for the truth and the desire to bring it to light…”

 

________________________________________________________________________________

 

**1519 – Leipzig**

“I didn’t think it would go this far,” Aziraphale admitted unhappily.

Crowley shot an amused look at him. “He criticised the Pope. What did you think was going to happen?”

The angel didn’t dignify him with a response, anxiously peering around the hall. The debate would begin soon. Eck and Karlstadt were there already and he was sure he spotted the black-robed figure of Martin Luther a little further down the hall.

Less than two years ago, Luther had nailed his 95 theses on the efficacy of indulgence to the door of the Castle church in Wittenberg. Word had spread, like a candle touched to dry kindling, and now, the man had been called to defend himself against accusations of heresy and folly.

“Good job on the tempting, by the way,” Crowley said, nudging him. “How’d’you convince him to do it anyway?”

Aziraphale glanced at him, then back down the hall, fiddling with his ring. “I didn’t really need to _do_ anything,” he said, trying to ignore the niggling knot in the middle of his chest. “He already believed the indulgences were wrong. He’d been preaching about it for years. He just… didn’t know what to do with it.”

The demon chuckled. “And you got him to put it down in writing. Trust you to make it all about the written word.”

Aziraphale forced a brittle smile on his lips.

If he was honest, he was worried.

He had seen enough religious upheaval to recognise the tremors that came before the earthquake and now, the ground was shuddering gently underfoot. On one hand, in his eyes, Luther had done nothing wrong. Saving his people from a false salvation was _good_. On the other hand, the Church was a powerful enemy, an iron hand in a velvet glove.

The fact that Luther’s words were spreading, the fact that people were thinking about them, the fact that people were questioning…

Many, many, many years ago, he had witnessed what could happen to people who went against the status quo. It started with a doubt and a question against the one with authority and by the end, there were bloodied swords and factions and war.

He had fought, believing himself to be on the side of Good and Right.

Cycles repeated, as they always had, whether in the Heavens or on earth.

He folded his hands tightly, one around the other.

This, he knew without question, was going to change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes**
> 
>  
> 
> In 1515, the Pope decide to do a charity drive to get money from the plebs to build St. Peter's in Rome. He did this by giving a swathe of priests including an unscrupulous man called Tetzel leave to sell plenary indulgences. ie. pay and wipe out some of your sins. Tetzel lives in infamy because he sold indulgences for sins that hadn't even been committed. 
> 
> (Funny side story: a nobleman asked him if he could buy one for a sin he hadn't committed. Tetzel said yes. The man bought one. When Tetzel left the town, the man jumped him, beat him and robbed him and went "that's the sin I hadn't committed yet". And he got away with it as well)
> 
> In response, in 1517 - after several years of preaching against the current abuse of indulgences - Martin Luther famously produced his 95 Theses. According to tradition, they would have been nailed to the door of All Saints' Church in the city. This was the beginning of the major reformation of the church, though Luther may not have intended to change things so drastically. Still, through the next century, the protestant religion began to flourish and so, religious upheaval returned with full force to a primarily-Catholic Europe.


	32. 1531 – Ingolstadt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With That Bloody Comet Again

It was that time again.

Funny how eons could pass and humans could still fall back into panic and terror, screaming about portents and the end of days at the sight of a natural phenomenon which came around every seventy-odd years.  

Crowley leaned back against the wall behind him, gazing up at the night sky, one leg dangling over the rail of the watch tower. It was a clear night and the stars glittered against the deep blue. The tower was high enough above the city that even the heavy fog crawling up from the river couldn’t spoil the view.

And there, right on time, was the familiar light sliding across the night.

Every time it showed up, the comet made the humans go a bit weirder than usual. Last time one of the more excitable Christian countries declared it was an ill omen warning of war and destruction and so, to ward off the coming turmoil, they declared war on the Turks, who were clearly to blame for it. The irony had completely passed them by. 

It wasn’t as if demons – or angels – celebrated birthdays or saints days or things the way the humans did, but seeing the comet was as close as he could get: a recurring reminder that time was passing and he was another almost-eight decades older.

He heard footsteps on the wooden steps of the tower, approaching.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Crowley didn’t even bother turning to the angel, his eyes on the comet. “You don’t need to come every time.”

“I know.” He heard the scuff and shuffle of the angel pulling himself up through the trapdoor. “But I like to.”

Crowley glanced sidelong at him. The angel was gazing up at the sky, a small smile on his face.

“It’s remarkable, isn’t it?”

“Mm?” Crowley looked back at the sky.

“I always forget how beautiful it all is,” the angel replied with a soft, contented sigh. “The heavens, so to speak.”

Crowley gazed up at the roiling pale coils of the galaxy above them and the gleaming point of the comet as it continued on its path. “Yeah.” The heavens. A kind of heaven that made the angel smile like that, instead of worrying and fretting and curling in on himself. “Better than the real thing.”

He wasn’t even surprised when Aziraphale didn’t argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note - For the curious, they're watching Halley's Comet, based on the recorded sighting by Petrus Apianus in Ingolstadt.


	33. 1532 - The Pacific Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With Aziraphale's Little Mistake

It was the first calm night in a while, so the men were on the deck. The sun had only just set off the starboard side and the shore was a distant smudge on the port side, far enough away for leisure, but close enough for security. Someone had dug out a pipe and one of the cabin boys was singing a filthy song.

Crowley leaned back on the barrel he was sitting on, pipe in hand, watching them.

Technically, he didn’t have to make the journey by ship, but he’d always liked the sea. There was something so big and uncaring about it. Didn’t matter if you were angel, demon, human or whatever. It could still smash your ship to pieces or be as calm as a millpond. Never two days the same.

Something bounced off his hat and he looked up with a frown.

The sky was clear, only a few smudges of cloud. He glanced around on the deck and saw a walnut.

“What the…?”

Another nut hit on him on the shoulder.

“Psst!”

He turned on the barrel, glancing down at the steps that led to the hold. A very familiar pale head was peeking over the edge, eyes wide and worried.

“Angel?” Crowley stared.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows pulled down in exasperation and he raised a hand over the edge of the opening, beckoning urgently. All things considered, he didn’t really need to be all furtive. Angels had the ability to go unnoticed if they want, which meant he had to be pretty bloody distracted, if he’d forgotten.

As soon as Crowley stepped down into the lantern-lit gloom of the hold, he was very glad Aziraphale hadn’t come above deck.

“Angel…” He considered how to word his question, then gave up and blurted out. “What the Hell are you doing dressed up like a Cardinal?”

The angel twisted his hands together, his expression fraught. “I seem to have made a bit of a mess.”

Crowley looked him up and down, trying to remember the last time he’d seen the angel in anything that wasn’t a shade of beige. “Yeah?”

“I– well, I really need to ask a favour.”

“A favour?” Crowley echoed, then couldn’t stop himself from asking again. “A Cardinal? Really? Red isn’t really your colour.”

Aziraphale waved a hand anxiously. “It– I needed to see what happened, that’s all.” He flourished his fingers, switching back to his more familiar tunic and hose. “Look, Crowley, you know I wouldn’t ask unless it was vitally important.”

Crowley considered his pipe, blowing on the embers to make them glow, for long enough to make the angel squirm. “Go on, then. What’s this favour?”

The angel took a deep breath. “I need you to take credit with your lot for something I did.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot skywards. “Come again?”

“I– well, you see–” The angel fumbled with the heavy crucifix hanging around his chest. “I may have given some rather… bad advice.”

“Bad advice?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I mean, his sister had been granted a divorce, so I saw no reason why he couldn’t ask for the same. I thought it would stop all the trouble that was happening.” He winced, his face rumpling. “But I forgot to take into account the circumstances. I should have realised he would have been refused–”

“You’re not exactly painting a clearer picture here, angel. What’s this all about?”

Aziraphale looked up at him, distraught. “England is breaking with the Catholic Church and it’s all my fault!”

Crowley gaped at him, blinking slowly. Well. That explained the outfit.

“And you want me to take the credit?”

The angel’s lower lip was trembling. “I hate to ask, but– well– you know how religious upheaval usually goes.”

Oh yes. Millennia of watching it play out. There would be war and bloodshed and chaos and all the things that were always blamed on Hell.

Crowley couldn’t help the wry smile that crossed his lips. “You’re making me look good– well, technically bad, but since that’s what my lot want…”

“You’ll do it then?” Aziraphale looked like he was about the melt with relief. “Oh, _thank you_.”  

Crowley waved dismissively, trying not to grin. “Bugger off, angel.”

“If you every need anything from me,” Aziraphale said urgently. “You know you can ask.”

“Anything?” Crowley couldn’t help himself, wiggling his eyebrows and leering.

The angel gave him that familiar prissy look. “Within reason,” he said with a sniff, but it gave way to another quick, smaller smile. “I had best get back. I wouldn’t want to miss any developments.”

It a blink of an eye, he vanished.

“See you later, angel,” Crowley murmured, shaking his head and fighting a smile. Of all the bloody angels, he had to get the one who inadvertently caused civil upheaval. S’a funny old world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I couldn't avoid mentioning the Tudors forever, could I? 
> 
> Historic notes: Yep, fun fact - Henry VIII's sister was granted a divorce from her second husband (first one was King of Scotland and dead) because he was a cheating cheat who cheated and used her dowry to set up shop with his mistress and bastards. Henry VIII was outraged and thought the Pope was defying God by granting the divorce and even screamed rage at his sister for her sin. 10 years down the line, his Hairy Highness pitched a fit when the Pope wouldn't let him divorce and lo, England became protestant. Yay Hypocrisy! :D


	34. 1568 – Caerwys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With the Eisteddfod

“What’s this all about anyway?” Crowley inquired, peering around the hall. There was a certain energy of inspiration and passion and when he looked at the angel, Aziraphale was almost glowing, which could only really mean one thing. “Oh no, no, no! This isn’t another one of your arty things is it? Is that why you didn’t tell me?”

The angel gave him a look. “If I’d told you, you wouldn’t have come.”

Somewhere on the far side of the hall, he heard the familiar twang of a harp.

“Could still leave,” he grumbled, peering through the gathering of people, trying to spot the harpist to give him a clip around the ear for letting it get so out of tune. “I thought this was business, anyway.”

“Business and pleasure,” Aziraphale replied, motioning for Crowley to follow him.

There were fancier chairs arranged at one end of the hall, with benches and stools filling the rest of it.

“Those for us?” Crowley asked, as they wove their way closer.

“For the judges,” Aziraphale said with a quick smile. “Probably a couple of the Mostyns. They’re in charge of all of it again.” He managed to get them to a less-packed part of the floor and sighed with relief. “Ah. Here we are.” He beamed at Crowley. “I have a little divine inspiration to deliver today and it seemed as good a place as any to mingle without being noticed.”

Another young man with a harp caught Crowley’s eye. “Mm. Safe to say I don’t think any of my lot’ll be within ten miles of this place.” Hell had their particular taste in music and – unsurprisingly – they’d gone off harp music a long, long time ago.

“I came to the last one,” the angel said. “It’s a shame you missed it. Some of the poetry was quite lovely.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “You know I’m not big on poetry.” He nudged Aziraphale’s elbow. “What are the judges for? Is it some kind of contest?”

Aziraphale nodded. “The winners,” he explained, “are awarded a silver prize. It’s _very_ prestigious.”

Crowley glanced around again. “Including harpists?” he asked, aiming for nonchalance.

“Oh, yes! They have some wonderful musicians.”

“Huh.” He glanced at Aziraphale. “Have you entered, then?”

The angel spluttered in astonishment. “Me? Enter? Oh, I couldn’t possibly! I’m not Welsh, for one thing, but even if I could, I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

Crowley peered over the rims of his glasses at him. “You’re an angel. Didn’t you have a harp?”

To his surprise, the angel looked even more flustered. “Well, yes, technically, but they took it off me. Apparently I… wasn’t particularly good at it. They gave me my flaming sword instead.”

Crowley had to press his lips together to smother the snigger. “Mm,” he finally managed. “And look how well that turned out.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flashed with one of those glimpses of annoyance that Crowley delighted in seeing. “Oh, do be quiet.”

He didn’t get a chance to reply as the contests began.

For once, he could see why Aziraphale enjoyed it. There was energy to it. People were excited. Even if his Welsh was a bit rusty – and probably a couple of centuries behind the times – he could follow what was happening and hear the hum of the spectators as the competitors performed. This wasn’t just about showing off their skills. There was prestige here and respect for the art.

Still, when the harpists started to play, his fingers twitched.

It had been a damned long time since he’d touched one of the instruments. Jerusalem, he thought distantly. A shepherd king. A very odd night on a rooftop that had turned them both into accidental peeping toms. Well, him accidentally. He still wasn’t sure about the shepherd-turned-king.

But before that, it was before the beginning even really began. Before a woman took and apple and turned the human world on its head.

Strange, the memories that could catch you by surprise.

“They’re very good, aren’t they?” Aziraphale murmured close to his ear.

“Mm.” He glanced sidelong at the angel, who looked blissfully happy. Was it possible he didn’t remember the choirs before the Fall? Maybe not. The celestial harmonies came long before the heavenly discord. They probably lasted long after as well. “Like upstairs?”

For a moment, Aziraphale’s expression clouded. “No. It’s not like this. Not anymore.”

Crowley nodded. He could imagine. Everything had changed the day Lucifer shattered the divine melodies, not just for the demons who Fell.

No wonder the angel enjoyed earth so much.

He leaned a little closer to Aziraphale. “You inspired anyone yet?”

Aziraphale nodded to the final harpist. “That young man.” He shot a smile up at Crowley. “He won’t win, unfortunately, but he’ll be remembered. Sometimes, that’s the more important thing.”

One side of Crowley’s mouth curled up. Won’t win, but will be remembered. How fitting. “I like him already.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will freely admit this is a purely self-indulgent chapter (not that the others are really anything else :D) because we had two Scottish chapters already and I felt that it was unfair to our angel's actor to ignore his homeland. 
> 
> Historic note: the event they're attending is the Eisteddfod that was held in Caerwys, sanctioned by Elizabeth I. As far as I understand, the Eisteddfods used to be held regularly as a kind of like a combination folk-arts-festival and intense talent competition between the top musicians, poets and suchlike in all of Wales.


	35. 1583 – Istanbul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With the Harem and the Hammam

Crowley sprawled back against the bolster, propping one foot on the silk-embroidered divan. “I don’t see anything to worry about,” she said.

The woman – women, really, if you counted the quiet little sheep who flocked around the Valide – gave Crowley a disdainful look. “He has only has two sons with _one_ woman. That is unnatural for any man, but for my son? He is the Padishah. It reflects poorly on him.”

“Plenty of people only have a couple of kids,” Crowley said, leaning over the side of the couch and reaching for the cup of sherbet. It was like drinking spicy rose water, but better than the weird apple tea they seemed to like. “Nothing wrong with it.”

Nurbanu snorted. “A man must have many children. Otherwise he will be thought… weak.”

“Weak?” Crowley echoed, then grinned. “Ohhhh.” She held up a hand, one finger pointing at the ornate domed ceiling, then suggestively let it droop. “Yeah. Weak. No one wants a… limp ruler.”

A couple of the sheep tittered behind their hands, hastily stifling themselves when the Sultan’s mother shot a poisonous look at them. 

“It is unnatural.”

“Everyone has off days,” Crowley said, waving her hand dismissively. “Especially in this heat. I mean, does anyone want to get hot and sweaty and…” She paused, frowning, something pricking at the edge of her senses.

“It is not,” Nurbanu repeated insistently, “natural. My son is a vigorous man!”

Crowley nodded, distractedly. Not another demon. Definitely something occult, though. “So what? It’s unnatural?”

“Yes!”

“Fine, yeah, it’s unnatural.” She sat up, staring beyond the harem walls. “Maybe she’s a witch. Maybe she’ll turn him into a newt. Maybe she cursed his bits to fall off. I dunno.”

“Yes! Exactly!” Nurbanu exclaimed. “A witch!”

Crowley ignored her, pinpointing the source, then groaned. “Oh for Satan’s sake!” She rolled off the couch, her skirts slithering behind her, slipping unnoticed from the woman’s attention and excited speculation about what kind of witch her daughter-in-law might be.

No one paid any attention as she emerged from the harem into the warm afternoon, manifesting a pair of sunglasses immediately. They had been unnecessary in the harem where the numerous origins and ethnicities meant golden eyes were just another interestingly exotic option for the Sultan to choose from.

The guards at the gates didn’t even give her a second look as she swept through, but outside the palace walls, the city was bustling.

“Ugh,” Crowley grumbled, looking around. Inside the palace, it was simple. People had their allocated places and didn’t almost flatten you with a cart stacked with chickens. There were too many people for her liking, so instead, she focussed on the source of the disturbance and immediately manifested directly to the location.

The world was suddenly muted, sunlight reduced to thin shafts of light through star-shaped windows in domes high above, the only sound the hum of muffled conversations bouncing off the  walls and the rush of water on marble.

Crowley squinted around, her glasses steaming up instantly in the moist heat. “Shit…”

“Crowley!” The angel’s voice was less of a welcome and more of a squeal of alarm.

Crowley whipped her glasses off, spinning on the spot, to see a very pink, very naked angel sitting on a marble dais and trying to pointlessly preserve his modesty with his hands and a large clump of bubbles. Crowley blinked stupidly at him. “Er…”

“What are you doing here?!” Aziraphale demanded, flushing even pinker and hastily groping for the towel spread beneath him.

Crowley half-shrugged, half-waved, still staring at the very pink and naked angel, who was dripping with water and soap suds and frantically shooing away a young male attendant with soapy hands. “Er… you’re… here?”

“Obviously!” The angel made a sharp gesture, freezing the world around them. With a towel wrapped around his middle, he looked much more at ease, though he was still very, very pink. “What are you doing here?”

Crowley gave him an even more pointed stare. “He’s naked with a man, and I’m the one getting interrogated?”

The angel pursed his lips. “For your information,” he snapped tartly, “I was having a very nice bath before you interrupted!”

“Bath,” Crowley echoed. She glanced towards the half-naked young man and his hands covered in bubbles. “S’that what they’re calling it?”

Aziraphale huffed in outrage. “I don’t appreciate your… insinuation!”

“My insinuation?” Crowley echoed, laughing in disbelief. “Naked and rubbed all over by a spry young thing like that and _I’m_ insinuating things?”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “It’s a hammam! It’s like the baths used to be in Rome! You get scrubbed and cleaned and massaged! There’s nothing… lewd about it!”

“Uh… huh…” Under Crowley’s gaze, a large blob of bubbles slid slowly down the angel’s soft belly. “Never knew you bothered with anything downstairs.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Well, generally, I don’t, but it gets comments here. They thought I was a rather neatly-clipped eunuch the first time I visited. A few of them came over for a look. It was all a bit embarrassing.” He looked Crowley up and down, then winced as he took in Crowley’s clothing and jewellery. “Oh. Oh dear. Did– have I interrupted you at work?”

Crowley made a face, waving his concern away. “Causing some friction in the palace,” she replied. “Easy job. Finished already.” She smiled crookedly. “Thought you were holding out on me and I’d come all this way for no reason.”

Aziraphale’s expression brightened. “Oh. No. Just a leisure visit. Best place for a decent bath these days. They’re awfully good at it and afterwards, they give you tea and sweets.”

Crowley couldn’t help laughing. “Ahhh. Now I see why you like it so much. Free food.”

Aziraphale’s blush, which had been fading, returned impressively fast. “Oh!”

Crowley grinned at him. “You’re too easy, angel.” She jerked her head towards the door. “I’ll leave you to your… bath.” She started to turn, but paused when Aziraphale spoke.

“You could… join me?” he suggested. “I mean, you would have to… change. Male-only area, you see. But it’s considered a very social thing.” He gave Crowley a small, hopeful smile. “It might be rather nice to have someone to talk to afterwards.”

Crowley turned back to him, then glanced around the room. It was a lot bigger than he’d initially realised, with niches around the raised central dais. Men of all ages, shapes and sizes were in various stages of scrubbed, naked and massaged.

She couldn’t help feeling oddly exposed and that was fully-dressed with only her eyes uncovered.

“Nah,” she said, taking a step back. The look on the angel’s face made her add quickly, “I’ve got a few more humans to get to.” She forced a quick grin. “You know how it is. No rest for the wicked and all that.”

“Maybe another time, then?”

She nodded. “Maybe,” she agreed, then paused and leaned down, unable to resist. “I know you were enjoying yourself, but maybe make your bits go a bit floppier.” She tried to school her expression into something more serious, but it didn’t really work. “They don’t usually do… _that_ unless they’re involved in– what did you call it?” She bit her lip and widened her eyes. “In-sinuating?”

As she faded back out of sight, she heard the angel yelp in dismay and saw him flame bright red all over again. Angels, she thought, snickering, too easy sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:  
> \- Nurbanu, the mother of Sultan Murad III, did in fact accuse her son's concubine of using witches and sorcerers to render him impotent when he only produced a couple of kids with his one concubine with whom he had been fairly monogamous. She even had Safiye's staff arrested and possibly tortured to verify the truth. Murad was not in fact impotent and went on to father 50 kids with various concubines, five of them with Safiye.  
> \- Despite the western perception of the harem as a den of sexy times, the harem was run with strict rules and etiquette. Specially selected female slaves were trained and educated in languages, music, singing, theology and many other things, because if they bore an Imperial heir, the Empire didn't need some sex-slave to support and train them - they needed an educated, intelligent woman who was capable of both mentoring and supporting the Royal Prince. The Sultan's mother was always the authority in the harem, with the Sultan's wives in various tiers below her, depending on their status.  
> \- Turkish hammams were and remain a very social hub in Ottoman society. They're divided by gender and in the past, were a good place to chat and do business and gossip as well as getting somewhere to bathe, have a massage and relax for a little while. Many of them still function today. The most modern of the traditional hammams was built in 1741. Some of the others date back 5 centuries or more and have changed very little in that time.


	36. 1655 – Częstochowa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With a Polish Siege, a Swedish Army and a Very Cold Snake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was almost entirely inspired by [this gorgeous art](https://morzeczka.tumblr.com/post/185570341074/i-was-watching-ogniem-i-mieczem-and-suddenly-i) and by Yukinojou cheerleading.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake!”

A hand came down hard on Aziraphale’s shoulder, pulling him deeper into the frozen, brittle undergrowth. “Stay down, Fell!” Czarniecki growled in his ear. “We did not come so far to be noticed.”

The angel tried to wrench his trailing sleeve free of the thorns, the fabric tearing and leaving a clump of the ermine fur clinging to the bush. “We won’t be noticed,” he muttered indignantly. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

The human snorted. “You have great faith.”

Aziraphale decided it would be prudent not to remind the man why they were fighting. After all, their defence was being mounted to keep the Protestant invaders out of the monastery. Or to protect some holy icon. Or something. It was all getting very confused.

Now, they were creeping around the edge of the enemy camp to try and disable their cannons, which had been bombarding the building day and night for ten days already. It was easy enough to conceal a small group of men from the attentions of their enemies until they could attack.

Of course, it would have been easier if Kordecki surrendered the monastery, but as with every other bloody war of the past century, the Poles were proving damnably stubborn.

Czarniecki motioned his men forward and Aziraphale took a slow breath then exhaled a curl of mist. He opened a hand, letting his protection spread, masking his current allies until they were almost upon the cannons. Only then did he let the illusion fall away. There was only so generous one could be when it came to war.

“Back again, are we?”

The voice close to Aziraphale’s ear almost made him jump. “Crowley?”

“Mm.” The demon almost blended into the darkness, a gloomy look on the pale oval of his face. “Got dragged into this as well. They like fighting, this lot.” Like Aziraphale, he was wearing the heavily-furred uniform of the Polish soldiers, a fuzzy hat pulled down low around his ears. The long feather pinned to it was drooping as much as the demon beneath it. “Could freeze the balls off a brass monkey, weather like this.”

Aziraphale had to agree. He frowned, peering at Crowley’s overcoat. “Wait. You can’t be fighting _for_ the monastery. It’s a religious building!”

The demon made a face. “I know. Can’t even go inside the bloody place. Have to sit outside the walls.”

“But _I’m_ fighting for the monastery. Are… we can’t be on the same side, surely?”

Crowley rubbed his nose with the back of his gloved hand, ruffling his drooping moustache. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

Aziraphale glanced around at a roar of celebration from his people. “Oh, good grief…” He glanced back at Crowley, who looked considerably smaller and much more miserable than he had the last time they had crossed paths. When was it again? Somewhere warm, certainly. 

For a moment, Aziraphale foundered, unable to remember, then the demon sneezed pathetically and rubbed his nose again.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Crowley!” He had the demon by the arm. “You’ll be no use to anyone, if you make yourself ill.”

Crowley blinked stupidly at him. “Demon, angel. Don’t get ill.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale glanced in the direction of the monastery, which certainly wasn’t an option for a demon of any kind. In the opposite direction, he could see the distant flickering lights of the torches in the town below. “Come on.”

It said a lot for Crowley’s state that he didn’t argue, shambling along beside Aziraphale, not even shaking the angel’s hand off his arm.

“Don’t like the cold,” he said miserably.

“I can see that,” Aziraphale murmured, slowing his pace to let the demon keep up with him. That was unusual in itself. Crowley was usually the one striding ahead. “We’ll find somewhere warm. Maybe have a drink.”

Crowley’s expression brightened. “Yeah. Good idea.” He paused, tugging his arm against Aziraphale’s. “Lemme change.”

“Change?”

The demon gave him a look. “You wanna go where the Swedes are, looking like this?”

Aziraphale looked down with an indignant pout. As inconveniently long as the sleeves were, they were delightfully cosy and when they flapped about, it almost reminded him of having his wings around him. “Very well,” he sighed with a quick flare of a miracle, replacing the ermine and heavy velvet with the far coarser and heavier clothing of a local peasant.

Crowley evidently felt the same way from the muttered “bleh” Aziraphale heard beside him.

While several soldiers ran by them on the road, no one gave them a second glance as they continued down towards the town. Unsurprisingly, there were several taverns around the town square, all of them with light streaming out the small square windows. As much as they might detest the Swedish army spread out around the town, they were probably happy enough to take coin in whatever shape or form it came in.

For expediency’s sake, Aziraphale bundled Crowley into the first one they came to.

The warmth from the bodies and the fire inside was like a wall compared to the bitter, bone-freezing cold outside. The demon gave a small, pitifully relieved moan, then groped about in his clothing.

“What are you looking for?” Aziraphale muttered, as he… acquired a couple of chairs for them close to the fire. Their current occupants suddenly found themselves avidly interested in going somewhere else.

“Eye-glasses.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think Polish peasants generally wear them.”

The demon gave him a gold-eyed glare. “And thisssss is better, is it?”

A number of pieces slid into place. Of course the poor fellow dealt badly with the cold. It was no wonder, given his background.

“On your head be it,” he said, waving a hand. “Sit down. I’ll fetch us some drinks.”

By the time he got back to the fireplace, two generous mugs of grzaniec in his hands, he could tell that Crowley was feeling better. The demon was slouched down in one of the chairs, legs splayed out, his feet propped on the hearthstone.

“If you singe your toes, don’t come crying to me.”

The demon made a face, looking over the rims of his glasses. “S’only fire.” He held out a hand, curling his fingers demandingly. “Gimme.”

Aziraphale handed him the glass, which he gulped down in a three mouthfuls, then groaned in satisfaction. “I’m not getting you another,” the angel said with a haughty sniff, as he sat down in the other chair and drained his own cup. It was a potent brew, very warming on such a chilly night.

Crowley rolled his shoulders. “Don’t need you to.” He lazily snapped his fingers and the innkeeper’s wife – halfway across the bar – spun around and brought the tankard she was carrying in their direction.

“Oh, _really_ , Crowley. Must you?”

The demon grinned and wrinkled his nose. “Y’could thwart me.”

Aziraphale considered him. “You know,” he said, rising. “I think I shall.” He stepped directly in front of the innkeeper’s wife and snatched the cup from her hand.

“Angel!” Crowley surged up in his chair. “Don’t you dare!”

“But I must do my duty,” Aziraphale said with the best expression of wide-eyed innocence that he could muster, then downed the contents of the tankard in two gulps before Crowley could snatch it back off him.

Crowley threw his arms up with a moan. “I hate you.”

Aziraphale dabbed the corners of his mouth delicately with his fingertips. “You don’t,” he said with a small smile.

And when Crowley subsided back into his chair, still grumbling noisily, Aziraphale could see him fighting a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historic note: Poland has infamously been an area of Europe that everyone has fought over and hacked bits off at some point. In this particular point, the Golden Age of Poland was coming to a brutal end. The Swedes were invading from the north and their German mercenaries were targeting the strategic fortress/wealthy monastery in Częstochowa - also know as the Siege of Jasna Góra. It was the only fortress the Swedish invaders did not capture.


	37. 1658 - Two days off the coast of Tortuga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With Piracy

“Oh, you have to be joking…”

Crowley stepped into the cabin and stared down at the prisoner kneeling on the floor. The clothes were a little darker than usual, there was a beard where he’d never seen one before and a cockade and wig obscured the familiar feathery blond hair, but there was no mistaking who they had captured. “Aziraphale?”

The angel looked up at him, lips pursed in irritation. “Did you do this on purpose?”

Crowley burst out laughing, clapping his hands together in delight. “No! Of course not! Of all the ships in all the ocean, you had to run into mine.” He strode across the floor, ducking under a swaying lantern, and hoisted Aziraphale back to his feet, looking him up and down. “What are you meant to be?”

The angel self-consciously rubbed at his chin, making a face as he brushed splinters out of his new and very neat beard. “I’m a sea captain,” he said as if wounded that Crowley couldn’t tell.

“Well, yeah, obviously.” Crowley obligingly dusted a few splinters from his shoulders. He sniggered. “They let you drive a ship?”

Aziraphale gave him a sharp look. “It’s called _sailing_.”

Crowley waved a hand. “Driving, sailing, making it go. Whatever. But you? You hate boats. Ever since-”

“That was a long time ago.” The angel held out his bound wrists, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry.” A snap of Crowley’s fingers unravelled the ropes. “Why were you on a Spanish ship anyway?”

Aziraphale rubbed his wrists. “Probably the same reason you’re on this one.” When Crowley looked at him blankly, he sighed impatiently. “Our duty?”

“Oh! Right! Yeah! Course. Duty. Definitely. That’s all.” Crowley nodded as if that was totally, definitely and absolutely the reason, because what other reason could there be…

Aziraphale didn’t pay attention all the time, but sometimes, when he did, it was like being skewered by a blade and right now, that’s what was happening. His eyes narrowed just a little. “What _are_ you doing here, Crowley?”

Crowley was likewise definitely absolutely and one hundred percent sure demons couldn’t blush, but he also had a sneaking suspicion his ears were going red. “Duty. Like you said.”

“Really?” For someone so pure and virtuous, it was amazing how much doubt and disdain an angel could manage to fit into one word. “Who exactly are you tempting?”

“Er…”

Aziraphale threw up his hands. “I knew it! You aren’t even doing anything!”

“I am too!” Crowley protested. “I’m being a pirate! Crime and pillaging and all the bad things, only on the high seas this time!”

“Oh Lord!” Aziraphale groaned. “Is this about Francis Drake again?”

“No.” Crowley shrugged. “Not much. Maybe. Sort of?”

More than half a century earlier, the damned man hadn’t even needed any tempting when he went off on his missions as the Queen’s dashing adventurer. Everyone was going on about how fascinating and interesting and exciting he was and Crowley never even got the chance to see what all the fuss was about. He’d been too busy off in Russia and by the time he got back it was too late.

And everyone knew, one man’s adventurer was another man’s rogue. It sounded like a lot of fun at the time and he’d missed it.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take you to get this out of your system?”

Crowley shrugged. “Until it’s not fun, I suppose.”

The way Aziraphale’s lips thinned into a line suggested that he was being disappointing. “Well, if you would have your crew release my ship, I’ll be on my way.”

“Release your ship?” Crowley shook his head. “Can’t do that. We caught you fair and square.”

“You _cheated_!” The angel was pink-cheeked with outrage.

Crowley grinned at him. “Demon.” He reached up and straightened the angel’s lop-sided wig, grinning even more when Aziraphale flapped his hands, brushing him away. “How about this? I’ll get you and yours to Tortuga in two days time and then we can get back to work.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at him. It was about as terrifying as being attacked by a hamster. “You had better.”

Crowley swept his feathered hat off his head and clasped it to his heart. “On my honour.”

“As a pirate or as a demon?” Aziraphale sniffed. “Because neither is particularly reliable.”

Sometimes, just sometimes, Crowley couldn’t help himself.

“Does it matter when you’re my prisoner?” He snapped his fingers again and Aziraphale managed a squeak of indignation before he was bound again and gagged this time. Crowley leaned closer, one side of his mouth curling up. “What can I say, angel?” He jammed his hat back on his head and spread his hands dramatically. “Demon pirate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historic notes: This period was one of several "golden ages" for the pirates, though Crowley missed out on the late 16th century run because he was in Novgorod with Ivan the Terrible (he didn't enjoy it much). Francis Drake walked a fine line of being a hero rogue for the English and pirate scum to everyone else, so no wonder Crowley found him compelling.


	38. 1675-1676 - London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With A Pair of Hopeless Caffeine Addicts

“There you are!”

Aziraphale glanced up from his plate, pursing his lips. He had, up until ten seconds earlier, being enjoying a beautifully-spiced dish of hashed meat in a comfortable little eating house not far from Covent Garden.

“Oh.” He forced as much disdain into his voice as he could muster. “It’s you.”

Crowley made a face at him, sprawling into the chair opposite him, his ridiculous hairdo rolling over his shoulders as extravagantly as any of the King’s wigs. “So you haven’t heard, then? Satan’s sake, it’s ridiculous!” He made airquotes with his finger. “So ‘diverse False, Malitious and Scandalous Reports are devised’? So what! If you don’t want people talking about what an arsehole you are, maybe don’t be an arsehole!”

Aziraphale pointed ignored him, stabbing daintily at an olive on his plate.

“Oh, come on, angel!” The demon sounded aggrieved. “You’re not still annoyed, are you?”

Aziraphale looked at him, raised an eyebrow, and pointedly bit down on the olive.

Crowley made a frustrated sound, unfolding from his sprawl to lean one arm on the table. “You can’t _still_ be angry. It’s been seventeen years! You’re an angel! You’re always on about charity and goodness and mercy and all that bollocks.”

Aziraphale gave him a cool look. He had not enjoyed several days held in a ship’s tiny brig, his clothes rumpled, his food packed with weevils. “Oh, we have options,” he said, delicately shredding the slowly-stewed mutton into thin, steaming strands. He skewered one of the shallots with some of the meat and looked Crowley dead in the eyes. “Wrath, for one. We _are_ known for smiting, after all.”

The demon leaned back, surprised and a little wary. “You? Smiting?”

Well, it wasn’t very likely, Aziraphale had to admit, but it was one of the elements of the job description. “Technically,” he allowed.  

Crowley sprawled back with a relieved grin. “Technically. S’what I thought.” He dragged the chair closer to the table. “Anyway, did you hear? You mustn’t’ve. You’re too calm for one thing.”

Aziraphale sighed impatiently. “I was enjoying my dinner, Crowley. Will you just explain what you want and leave?”

“Oh.” Crowley seemed bewildered and a little hurt. _Good_ , Aziraphale thought spitefully. “Um. Well. Yeah. The King decided to ban coffee houses.”

“He’s _what_?!?”

Relief flooded the demon’s face. “Good! We’re on the same page! So I was thinking we could–”

Aziraphale held up a hand. “Explain. I haven’t heard _anything_ about this!”

The demon cracked a rueful grin at him. “’Parently, they’ve ‘produced very evil and dangerous effects’.” He made air quotes with his fingers again. “Bloody bastard thinks everyone’s out to get him, so he cuts us all off because he’s a paranoid idiot!”

Yes, technically, he had just cause to be a bit nervous. After all his father _had_ been beheaded, but really! There was such a thing as going overboard.

“They can’t be evil!” Aziraphale exclaimed in indignation. “ _I_ use them! What’s wrong with coffee?”

“And chocolate,” Crowley added, piling extra fuel onto the flames of outrage. He almost looked like he was enjoying himself. “And sherbet and tea as well.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale surged to his feet. “This won’t do!”

“It’s meant to come into effect in ten days,” Crowley said helpfully, scrambling to his feet, his heeled shoes tapping on the wooden floor.

The angel stormed towards the door. “I think _not_.”

 

 

**Nine days later**

 

“Celebrating your victory?”

Aziraphale didn’t give the demon the satisfaction of turning to look at him, though he had to smother a small smile. “I wondered when you might turn up.”

“Proverbial bad penny, that’s me,” Crowley said cheerfully. He leaned on the back of Aziraphale’s chair, peering over his shoulder. “What’s your poison today, then?”

“Chocolate with a drizzle of coffee swirled through it,” Aziraphale replied, waiting for Crowley to notice that the table had – for the first time in more than a decade – been set for two. It didn’t take long and the demon collapsed into the opposite chair, snatching up the second cup.

“Coffee chocolate, eh?”

The angel smiled slightly, tilting his cup towards him. “I thought it might be an interesting cocktail.”

Crowley threw one leg over the arm of the chair, reclining back against the other, and sipped the bittersweet dark liquid. “Not bad,” he said with a curl of his lip. “Could do with less chocolate though. Ruining good coffee, that.”

“You’re just being difficult on purpose,” Aziraphale said with a little sniff.

“My job, that.” Crowley grinned at him, lips smudged with chocolate. He raised his cup in a toast. “To your success.”

Aziraphale shifted happily. “Ours, I think. After all, you took half the house.”

“Eh.” Crowley waved his hand from side to side. “They didn’t need much of a push, to be honest. They guzzle the stuff even more than you do.”

“I do _not_ guzzle!” Aziraphale said indignantly. “Though I do suppose it was more of a good deed. Can you imagine how fretful people would become without their coffee? It would have had a terrible effect on the people.”

“Mm.” Crowley looked a bit too amused for Aziraphale’s liking. “Yeah. Totally did it for them, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale tried to ignore the heat blooming in his cheeks. “Of course.”

“Not at all because you wanted to keep your cosy little coffee shops?” Oh, he was almost grinning, the wretched demon! “No selfish motivations at _alllll_.”

“I– um–” Aziraphale shifted self-consciously. “Well, it’s very convenient, you see. After a busy day of miracling and good deeds and such, one likes to be able to relax.”

“And the fact you could miracle any of these things from anywhere in the world any time you wanted is beside the point?”

“Oh, _really_!” Aziraphale huffed indignantly. “You know miracled food and drink is nowhere near as delicious as the authentic thing!” The demon’s lips were still twitching and Aziraphale realized, mortified, that he had only been arguing for Crowley’s point. “And anyway, the humans need them too! They’re very important social hubs! And some people only have a chance to eat because of them!”

“Mm-hm.”

Aziraphale glowered at him. “Oh, do be quiet.”

“Didn’t say a thing, angel.” Crowley grinned at him.

“You didn’t _have_ to,” he retorted, but it was almost impossible not to smile. He studied the demon thoughtfully. “But I don’t recall letting you know I was coming here. Why _are_ you here, Crowley? I assume it’s not for the chocolate?”

Crowley winced. “No, not exactly.” He scratched the end of his nose with the tip of thumb. “There’s been some… stuff happening near the Ottoman empire.” He gave Aziraphale a hopeful grin. “I need a favour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, this chapter leads directly into the 1676 chapter now :) Who said writing chronologically was critical? :D
> 
> Historic notes:  
> \- in the 1600s, coffee shops popped up all over London. There were thousands of the things and they were known as very popular places for socialising, meeting and mingling with all sorts of people. Naturally, this made people suspicious, because who knew what the plebs might be up to?  
> \- 1675/1676 (end of December, into January), the King decided to ban all coffee shops, because he thought people were gathering in them to conspire against him. His paranoia may not have had solid foundations, but knowing your dad was executed by people who conspired against him will make you a tad bit paranoid. The bill was signed and put in motion on 29th of December. The ban was meant to take effect on 10th January. It was abolished on the 8th of January, because funnily enough, some politicians rather liked sending the servants down to Ye Olde Starbucks for a quick brew.


	39. 1676 - The Border of the Ottoman Empire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With the Zaporozhian Cossacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read [the letter from the Zaporozhian Cossacks to Sultan Mehmed IV](https://www.mhistory.net/zaporozhian-cossacks-letter-to-sultan-mehmed-iv/), you really should :D Be warned, it's very nsfw and very, very deliberately offensive to its target audience.

"I really think it would be a good idea."

Ivan twisted his face doubtfully. "A letter?"

Aziraphale nodded emphatically. "A diplomatic response. Mostly." He peered down at the demand for surrender from the Sultan, pursing his lips. Crowley had a lot of nerve to ask for an urgent favour, especially given one of the last times they'd seen each other. "Think of it this way: he'll see it arrive and assume it's a surrender."

"And it is not?"

Aziraphale remembered the gleeful grin on Crowley's face as he tossed him in the brig of his ship. He'd rolled about in the cell for two days before they reached Tortuga. That was not the kind of thing that anyone ought to do, especially not to someone who has been known to help them from time to time.

And now, he was expected to lead the Cossacks into further temptation and inflame the wrath of the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire?

Well, if that was what Crowley wanted, that was .... damned well what Crowley was going to get.

"Oh, it most certainly is not." 

The Cossack stroked his drooping moustache thoughtfully. He unfolded from the leather cushion he was sitting on. "Come," he said, gesturing out of the tent. "If we are to write a letter, then my men must share the words."

Aziraphale nodded, hurrying along after him. "If I may make a suggestion for an opening line or two...?"

"Hm?" Ivan grunted.

Aziraphale considered, picking his way across the camp-churned dirt. "You ought to call him a devil. Quite a lot actually. I hear they find that very offensive." He grinned suddenly, wondering if this was what it felt like to be... well, not wicked, but a bit naughty. "How about suggesting he's a secretary to Satan?"

Ivan gave a booming burst of laughter. "Ha! A secretary! A paper-man! Yes! Not even a warrior." He slapped Aziraphale so hard on the shoulder that Aziraphale staggered. "We should speak of his family as well, this self-named son of God."

It _was_ a little wicked, but Aziraphale couldn't help himself. "You could always call him the grandson of - of the Serpent."

Ivan roared with laughter. "Yes!" He squeezed his arm around Aziraphale's shoulder. "Come, we need to put these words down. Can you write well?"

The angel couldn't help the grin. It felt like a much more... Crowley-ish expression, but given the circumstances, wasn't that a little bit appropriate? "I can write _beautifully_."

 

**1677 - London**

"A letter?"

Aziraphale primly sipped his glass of wine. "You weren't very specific."

Crowley stared across the table at him. "You went to corrupt the Zaporozhian Cossacks and you made them write a _letter_?"

Aziraphale pressed his lips together to fight down a smile. "It was a very good letter."

"You were meant to be getting them to rile up the Sultan of Turkey! Not turn them into pen-pals!"

Aziraphale daintily dabbed his lip with his kerchief. "Oh, I don't think that would happen."

Crowley snorted in disbelief, slouching down in his chair. "A letter. For Satan's sake..."

 

 

**1725 - London**

"Aziraphale!"

The angel glanced up from the dish of pilau with a smile. "Ah! Crowley! Hello!"

The demon stalked through the crowded restaurant, shoving people aside, and slammed his hands down on the table, glowering down at him. "Don't you 'Hello' me, angel," he growled. 

Perhaps it said too much about their relationship, but Aziraphale had long-since stopped being alarmed by the demon's show of temper. "Is something the matter?" he inquired as he scooped up some more rice on his fork.

"I just read a little letter of yours." Crowley's eyes were blazing. 

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. "A letter? You'd have to be a tad more specific."

Crowley lunged down like a striking snake, nose-to-nose with him, teeth bared, eyes blazing like hellfire. "O sultan, Turkish devil and damned devil’s kith and kin, secretary to Lucifer himself." His lips peeled back further from his teeth. "Ringing any bells?"

It took all of Aziraphale's willpower not to laugh. He set down the fork carefully on the edge of his plate, smoothed his kerchief between his fingers and fought to keep his lips from twitching. "Well, you did _ask_ me to make sure they riled up the Sultan and I think it worked rather nicely." He met Crowley's blazing eyes and raised his eyebrows in challenge. "Don't you?"

For a moment, Crowley just stared at him, then he blinked once, twice. "What?"

"I," Aziraphale purred, leaning forward, "did exactly what you asked of me, Crowley." 

The demon stared at him for a moment longer, then dropped down in the seat opposite him. "You... actually wrote that? _You_?"

Aziraphale spread his hands in a small shrug. "I helped." His lips were twitching too much to keep them in check now. "I thought it was all rather good."

Crowley slouched back in a chair, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Every time I think you can't surprise me, angel..." He shook his head. "You are a bloody genius." 

It was astonishing, Aziraphale thought as heat bloomed in his cheeks, how nice it was to hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just in case you want to hear the full letter being read in all it's glory, [here is Peter Capaldi's live rendition](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hQTlT8-qYUk). It is marvellous :D
> 
> Historic notes: The Ottoman Empire was at beginning of the waning of its power at this point. Mehmet, Selim and Suleiman had massively expanded the empire in the previous centuries to cover huge chunks of Europe, the Middle East and Asia. Unfortunately, their descendants were somewhat less-good at maintaining their Empire.  
> Meanwhile, the Cossacks had spent generations being the source of fresh slaves for the empire and having their land ripped out from under them, so you can imagine why they would tell the Sultan to shove it. Especially after they had just resoundingly trounced his army and he had the cheek to demand their surrender.


	40. 1687 – Marseilles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this woman. I have loved her for a long time. Julie D'Aubigny is wonderful.

**1687 – Marseilles**

The weather was beautiful and the town-square was thronged with people.

Aziraphale wove between the market stalls, peering about, searching for the woman he had been sent to find. She was certainly meant to be somewhere in the square, but humans were awfully good at wandering off when you least expected it.

Still, to look on the bright side, there were some lovely places to eat in Marseilles with marvellously fresh fish.

He paused when he heard a voice rising over the hawkers and traders. It was beautiful, soaring and ringing out. Trained, certainly, though not to a professional level, which was a tragedy. A voice like that certainly deserved a place on some of the finer stages of the continent.

Well, until his target appeared, no harm in going for a look, was there?

He followed the voice to the far side of the square. The young woman was standing at the centre of a growing circle of people and the moment he saw her, he smiled. There she was, the runaway Madame de Maupin. She was standing proud and confident, sword at her hip, breeches on her legs, and delight all over her face.

He approached, squeezing through the crowds, and listened as raptly as the rest of them.

When the girl swept into an extravagant bow and hopped down from the step she was standing on, coins rained into the cap at her feet.

“That was marvellous, Mademoiselle,” Aziraphale said warmly, as she gathered up the coins.

She gave him a cursory look, then smiled. “You’re a long way from home, Monsieur.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She nodded at his clothing. “More suited to the court, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale groaned inwardly. It wasn’t that peasant clothes were especially _bad_ per se, but the finer ones were just so much nicer to wear. “Family matters,” he said as dismissively as he could. “My dear, I couldn’t help but notice what a wonderful singer you are.”

She laughed, tucking her coins into a purse at her belt. “And yet, you tossed no coin to buy my bread.”

“I can do far better,” he said. “Will you walk with me?”

She put her hand to the pommel of her sword. “I prefer, Monsieur, to do my business in plain sight. I am not one to be bought for… private business.”

Aziraphale blinked at her, then recalled her unfortunate background and the man who had made her into his amusement when barely out of childhood. “Oh! Oh, no!” He flapped his hands urgently. “Oh, Lord, _no_. Nothing like that. I only have a friend who might be interested in your singing.”

La Maupin raised her eyebrows. “And who might this friend be?”

Aziraphale beamed. “He runs the opera in the city. He is always seeking fresh singers, especially a talented one such as yourself.”

La Maupin blinked foolishly at him. “You think he would give me a position?”

The man would, even if it took a touch of divine encouragement. A voice like that was made to beautify the world. “I’m certain of it,” he said warmly. “Will you come with me to meet him?”

And for a moment, the young woman looked as young and giddy as a child. “Yes.”

 

 

**1689 – Avignon**

It had been weeks since the secondment and at bleeding last, the end was nigh. Crowley’s target had finally showed up and, thank Satan, wasn’t in the consecrated halls of the convent itself. The place was wearing on Crowley like a nasty rash and she couldn’t wait to be back outside.

Crowley cleared her throat. “Scuse me.”

The young woman peered around the bundle on her shoulder. No fear, Crowley noticed. “Excuse _me_ , Sister,” she snapped, walking on down the narrow corridor.

Crowley tilted her head. “Yeah. No. Not happening.” She trotted alongside the girl. “I mean, I know I’m meant to do a vow of silence of some rubbish, but I can’t help but notice you appear to have the body of the dearly departed Sister Agnes over your shoulder.”

That made her stop, turning to look back at Crowley. Stock-still and not even wobbling under the weight of a nun’s body. “I’m moving some supplies over to the convent, Sister.”

Crowley scratched along the edge of the habit. It itched like mad. “Rubbish,” she said. “S’a nun.” She gave the girl a sunny grin. “Why’s a nice postulant like you sneaking about in the middle of the night with a dead nun on her back?”

The girl dropped her burden and whipped out a knife, advancing on Crowley. “You’d do better to not ask any questions.”

Crowley laughed in delight. “Oh, I _like_ you.” She scratched at her veil again, then yanked it off and pushed her fingers through her hair. “Ugh. I hate religious clothes.” She gave the girl a sunny grin. “So. What are you up to? And can I help?”

The girl stared at her warily. “What?”

“S’a heavy body. I can give you a hand.”

The girl frowned. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Honestly?” Crowley shrugged. “The sooner I cause chaos in this place, the sooner I can leave. It’s _so_ dull and nothing happens and I’ve been waiting for the chance to mess them about.”

The girl’s expression changed, a smile flashing across her face. “Ah. Now, you’re speaking my language.” She jerked her thumb towards the bundle. “We need to get that into the room of one of the other postulants.”

Together, they hoisted the cloth-wrapped body off the floor.

“This your idea of a prank?” Crowley inquired.

She flashed a devilish grin at him. “An escape.”

Crowley glanced down at the bundle, then back at her. “And the nun is…”

“Can’t fake a tragic death in an accidental fire without a body,” she replied, then hissed a profanity under her breath. Further down the hall, there were lights moving, lamps, other nuns on the move and if she was caught–

Crowley snapped her fingers. “Don’t _move_ ,” she breathed.

The huddle of nuns and postulants brushed by them, so close they could almost touch. The girl’s face was bone white, but she held her ground, and as soon as the halls were clear again, her breath exploded out in a gust.

“How did you do that?” she demanded.

Crowley made a partial sign of the cross, stopping just before it started to burn. “Divine intervention, you could say.”

“Devilish, more like,” she laughed. “Come on!”

Together, they hauled the bundle down the hall and carried it into one of the small rooms, where they set it down on a low cot beside the wall. Another young girl was waiting for them, pale-cheeked and wide-eyed.

“You did it!” she gasped. “Julie, you did it!”

Julie swept across the room and kissed her warmly. “Of course, ma chérie. I promised I would.” She glanced back at Crowley. “My thanks, Sister.”

Crowley grinned. “Don’t mention it.” She paused by the door. “I mean that. Don’t mention _it_.”

Julie inclined her head. “Nor you,” she said with a pointed nod to the shroud-wrapped body.

“Course not,” Crowley said and pulled the door shut behind her. At least, not to anyone except a certain angel.

 

 

 

**1692 – Paris**

 

The curtain had fallen and Aziraphale clutched at Crowley’s arm. “You see what I mean?”

Crowley nodded. “She’s definitely got a pair of pipes on her, hasn’t she?” He got up, then offered Aziraphale his arm. “Coming, angel?”

Aziraphale nodded, gathering up her skirts as they fell in with the crowd drifting towards the doors of the theatre.

Both of them had been on the continent for business in the preceding weeks and when he had learned that the infamous Mademoiselle de Maupin had elevated herself as far as the opera in Paris and was performing, Aziraphale had absolutely insisted that they meet and attend one of her performances.

“She’s come a long way from singing in town squares for coins,” she said.

Crowley grinned. “Well, she does have a few advantages there, doesn’t she?” he said. “Family connections, foot in the door, handy with a knife, bit eccentric and definitely interesting.” He nudged Aziraphale. “D’you think this lot know about the nun?”

Aziraphale hid a laugh behind her fan. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Scandal sells these days, don’t you know? It’s a part…” She trailed off, frowning. “My dear, would you mind if we slipped around the back? Something feels amiss…”

Crowley shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”

Of course, no one noticed them, not even when they swanned through the side door of the building and into the backstage part of the theatre.

“I will not stand for this anymore!” La Maupin’s voice was raised in fury.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale murmured. “Do you think–”

Crowley was already striding onwards.

Aziraphale gathered up her skirts, muttering a rude word under her breath as they tangled around her legs, and hurried after him. In the labyrinth of dressing rooms and costume areas, it was such a muddle to find anything.

“Angel!” Crowley yelled from up ahead. “This way!”

They had to force their way through a gaggle of whispering and staring performers to dash into a small room only to stop short along with other members of the company.

A man – middle-aged, balding, and sweating – was curled up on the floor and La Maupin was kicking him in the ribs.

“She is _not_ your plaything, you disgusting old sot,” she snarled. “She’s a member of this company! You will treat her with respect!”

The man on the floor grasped at her leg. “You vicious bitch!”

La Maupin backhanded him viciously. “Don’t even _try_ touching you me.” She went on one knee beside him, grabbing a hank of his shirt in her hand and jerked him up, baring her teeth in a feral snarl. “You will leave our ladies alone or I shall make damned sure you have nothing left to prod at them, do you _understand_ me?”

“Should we…” Aziraphale murmured uncertainly.

Crowley screwed up his face and shook his head. “Nah. Sounds like he had it coming.”

The man, it seemed, was not a quick study and he spat in her face.

Aziraphale saw the way La Maupin pulled back her arm and turned away, but Crowley made a sound of appreciation. “ _Beautiful_ right hook.”

“Mademoiselle!” One of the more senior looking humans in the room exclaimed. “You _can’t_ –”

She got back up, wiping her hands on her trousers. “Perhaps you should try telling Monsieur de la Verge what _he_ can’t do instead.” She was curling and uncurling her hand. Her knuckles were gashed open, no doubt from the punch. “If you will excuse me…”

Aziraphale hurried after her as she strode out into the hall. “Mademoiselle de Maupin!”

The young woman turned, hostile and teeth-bared, as if expecting another attack, then her gaze skimmed Aziraphale up and down, and her expression shifted into something altogether more friendly. “I beg your pardon, Madame.”

The angel beamed at her. “Not at all, my dear,” she said, reaching out to clasp the young woman’s hand. “I only wanted to compliment you on your performance.” She held De Maupin’s hand between hers, the whisper of a miracle passing unnoticed as the damage tissue healed. “And now, I find you protecting your lady companions. It’s dreadfully brave of you. Marvellous, even.”

De Maupin’s face broke into a wide grin. “I should have you print that for me, that I may pass it out as a notice to all my detractors.” She gave Aziraphale’s hand a warm squeeze. “Thank you, Madame, for your kind words.” She dipped into a bow, then pressed her lips to Aziraphale’s hand. “Perhaps, I may find you another time, under more… pleasing circumstances.”

Aziraphale pinked happily. “If you ever have the time,” she said, then drew back when Crowley cleared his throat behind her. “But I must let you get on. You must be very busy tonight.”

De Maupin gave her another, warmer smile. “Alas, yes.” She bowed again. “Madame.”

Crowley was by her side as soon as De Maupin vanished up the hall. “Couldn’t help yourself, could you? Slipping a little good deed in there when you thought I wasn’t looking?”

Aziraphale swatted him on the arm with her fan. “It was only a little one. I doubt she even noticed.”

“Well,” Crowley said with a smirk. “She noticed mine.”

Aziraphale glanced at him. “Oh? I didn’t spot yours.”

The demon gave her an amused look, then leaned in and murmured close to her ear, “Our little wildcat likes a lady with a fine shapely bosom.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

Crowley’s eyes drifted pointedly downwards. Aziraphale frowned, looking down at her dress, then gasped in dismay. She grabbed the lace and tried to haul it back up into a more modest, matronly fashion.

“ _Crowley_! That– I can’t believe you would–” The fabric gave, tearing, revealing even more flesh. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake!”

“It was only a little one,” the demon sing-songed, as he sauntered off down the corridor. “I doubt she even noticed.”

Aziraphale threw her fan at his head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical notes**
> 
>  
> 
> Yes, every one of these incidents happened and was real. 
> 
> Marseilles - she had run away from a loveless marriage with her boyfriend and they made money with fencing demonstrations and singing. She was trained as a fencer because her father was a member of Louis XIV's household staff and trained the young lads up. It also led to her spending much of her childhood in boy's clothes and she never grew out of the habit. In Marseilles, she first joined an opera.
> 
> Avignon - La Maupin was an unashamed bisexual and fell in love with a young woman. When the young woman's parents tried to hide her away in a convent, La Maupin signed up under the pretence of wanting to become a nun, then stole a dead nun's body to fake her girlfriend's death and set fire to the room before fleeing into the sunset with said girlfriend. She was tried (as a man) for multiple charges, including kidnapping, body-snatching and arson and technically, was given a death penalty, but for various reasons (including the King thought her shenanigans were so hilarious that he gave her a pardon), she got away with it.
> 
> Paris - And then she managed to get into the Paris Opera, where she continued to raise a storm. This particular occasion was triggered by the singer in question harassing women of the company. I'm... extrapolating data from what I've seen of her, and the fact she had a rich aristocrat sexually abusing her from the age of 13 suggests she may not have tolerated it in other men.
> 
> Other ends I have missed in her life: she fought multiple duels with multiple men and won pretty much all of them, one of the men she stabbed in a duel ended up her lover, she had multiple lovers of both genders, she kissed a woman at a Royal ball which led to three of the aforementioned duels. And so much more. She was an exciting lady.


	41. 1790 – London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With the Dashing Chevalier

The turn of the season in England could be an awfully mixed bag, but for once, the weather was favourable and the evening was cool and pleasantly clear.

Aziraphale hurried across the bridge and continued south past Southwark Cathedral, regretting his choice of such a ruffled cravat.  The silly thing kept on flapping up as he dashed along. He made a quick gesture, miracling up a pin to hold it in place, even though technically, that was stretching the rules about ‘necessary miracles’.

Well, it wasn’t as if they really noticed anyway and he _was_ due to perform a miracle and was already running quite late. Better to have a useful – and rather pretty – pin than to be even later.

He was coming up on Great Dover Street when someone fell into step beside him.

“In a hurry, angel?”

He shot an exasperated look at Crowley. “I don’t have time to chat just now,” he said.

The demon grinned at him. “I can see that.” With his long-legged strides, he easily kept pace with the angel. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale tried to fight down his annoyance, but it was quite frankly impossible. He had, of course, been keeping abreast of the situation and when certain news had reached him, he had wanted to throttle the demon. “Really, Crowley! All that tea? Did you _have_ to?”

Crowley’s grin grew even wider, but he held up his hands “Don’t blame me for that one! I just suggested that they should throw some rocks. Always a fan of a good rock-throwing, me. _I_ didn’t know they had any way to get on the ships, did I?”

In his defence, it was probably true. Humans could be very ingenious when it came to causing damage to life and property in ways that were both petty and expensive. And, Aziraphale lamented, destroyed more than 300 chests of lovely tea.

“Hm.” He paused to catch his breath, looking up at the demon. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Here?” Crowley’s eyebrows arched. “London-here? Or beside-you here?”

“Well, both, I suppose.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Working, supposedly. Planted a temptation or two. Need to see if it works out.”

Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously. “And that covers both?”

There was a smirk playing about the demon’s lips. “You’re here for a musician, aren’t you? Frenchie? Not the palest man around?”

“Oh no!” Aziraphale stared at him in dismay. “What have you done?”

Even through his smoked glasses, Aziraphale could see Crowley’s eyes widen innocently. “I just told some lads where they could find him. I mean, he’s been annoying a lot of people with that being not-pale-and-articulate thing he’s been doing.” He gave Aziraphale a nudge. “Don’t worry. You’re not going to need to do much work today.”

“I don’t understand,” Aziraphale said, puzzled. “I thought you said…”

Crowley snickered. “Yeah, I told them where he was.” He jerked his head. “C’mon. I need some free entertainment.”

By the time they reached the spot where Aziraphale was meant to cross paths with the Frenchman – Saint-Georges, a musical favourite of the Prince of Wales as well as the Queen of France – he couldn’t help feeling even more suspicious.

There were a huddle of men in a side alley and Aziraphale shot a look at Crowley, who grinned and nodded. One of the men sloped out of the alley as the fashionably-dressed Frenchman strode briskly by. A flash of twilight on metal made Aziraphale start in dismay. It was a pistol.

“Hold on!” Crowley put out an arm to stop him moving.

“You can’t expect me to stand by and watch–”

His words cut off when he saw an answering movement from the Frenchman. His walking stick, a ribbon-decorated rod of pale wood, flashed quicker than lightning, disarming his assailant easily. The pistol went bouncing and skittering across the cobbles and into the shadows.

“Oh…” Aziraphale breathed.

“ _Nicely_ done,” Crowley said, nodding approvingly.

“You knew–”

“I knew they were going to go after him.” He shrugged. “Looks good on me if I send a bunch of useless idiots to attempt an assassination of a significant friend of the Royals, doesn’t it?” He rubbed his hands together gleefully as the fallen gunman’s compatriots emerged from the alley. “Pity no one bothered to tell them he’s bloody good with a sword.” He caught Aziraphale’s arm again when he moved to help. “I told you – wait.”

Aziraphale hesitated. “But he’s outnumbered!”

“Yeah,” the demon replied, laughing. “And they’re outmatched. Watch. It’ll be hilarious.”

Although Aziraphale wasn’t an angel to take pleasure in the pains of others, there was something very satisfying about watching Saint-Georges effortlessly lay out his additional four assailants with a combination of deft and pointed application of a skilfully-handled walking stick and pugilistic ability. He was astonishingly fast and when he was done, his enemies fled, whimpering and bleeding.

Saint-Georges dusted himself down and checked his stick for damage, then – with a delicacy that belied his martial skill – dabbed at his bruised and bloodied knuckles with his handkerchief, irritation clear on his face.

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, startled. “I forgot. He has a music night tonight. He won’t be able to play!”

Crowley gave him an amused look. “Maybe you do get to do some work after all,” he said, stepping back. “Go on. I know you want to.”

Aziraphale nodded and hurried over to the man in a show of great concern. He picked Saint-Georges’ fallen hat off the ground and made noises about the ruffians of London these days and how he hoped he wasn’t badly injured.

It took little more than a clasp of the man’s hands to heal a small fracture in one finger and ease the worst of the bruising, and when Aziraphale hurried back to Crowley’s side, he was beaming.

“What a charming man.”

“Always weak for the musicians, aren’t you?” Crowley grinned.

Aziraphale sniffed primly. “I appreciate artistry in all its forms.”

“Speaking of…” Crowley glanced around, the nodding northwards. “Wiltons got an early shipment in an hour back.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “In the evening? But they won’t be open…”

The demon shrugged. “Depends on who you talk to,” he said. “For a small fee, you get fresh Atlantic oysters, pulled out the water two hours ago.”

“Oh…” Wiltons _were_ awfully good after all and they were always willing to indulge his little fancies when it came to their seafood. “You’re sure they’ll be open?”

Crowley grinned at him. “Oh, I made sure of it.” He raised his eyebrows. “Fancy some oysters?”

And, Aziraphale thought with a smile, he probably made sure that the oysters were caught and delivered there as well. “Well, it would be rude not to, wouldn’t it?”

Crowley’s grin was radiant. “Come on, angel,” he said, and together, they headed back towards Haymarket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:  
> 1\. there are two dates on record for the incident in this chapter, but I'm going with the one mentioned in a French newspaper, two weeks after it happened in February 1790.  
> 2\. Yes. This did actually happen. And the gentleman in question is Chevalier Saint-Georges, the biracial violin-virtuoso composer and fencing master who was in the King’s Guard and ended up in Marie Antoinette’s Band and may or may not have been a spy for France. The assassination attempt was allegedly because he was involved with the English abolitionist movement and was very popular with the Prince of Wales. He went back to France a couple of years later and set up an all-black regiment, which included Alexandre Dumas's (ie. the writer of The Three Musketeers) father :) Also, google Saint-George's face, because he was stunning.


	42. 1816 - London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With a Year Without Summer (and A Very Sulky Snek)

“I’m sure this is your fault,” Aziraphale was complaining as he threw wood bits onto the fire.

“Me?” Crowley wagged a finger, somehow managing not to spill the sherry from the glass he was holding. “No! S'not me!” He shook his head for emphasis, then winced, squeezing an eye shut when the world swam. “No’ me. Bloody great volcano, innit?”

Aziraphale looked over from the fireplace, his nose all wrinkly. “How many glasses have you had?”

Crowley considered him, then the half-drunk glass in his hand. “One!” he declared. “One glass.”

The angel’s eyebrows went up towards his hair. “And what else?”

Crowley thought a little harder. “Bottle. Or two.” He jerked his head towards the front of the shop and the cold, foggy, wet street beyond the glass. “S'cold out there.”

The angel got up and plopped himself onto the chair beside the fireplace. “What do you mean it was a volcano?”

“S'what did it.” Crowley waved a hand. “Big thing. Went boom.” He flicked his fingers towards the ceiling. “Poof. All smokey and ashy and all over a’ place. Like with the boaty thing. You know. Zoo-boaty thing. One that lost the unic-”

“Noah. Yes.” Aziraphale reached over and snatched the glass out of his hand.

“Hey! S'mine!”

“I think you’ve had enough,” Aziraphale leaned back so Crowley couldn’t catch him and drank all of the glass in one go.

“Nope.” Crowley staggered to his feet and towards the table and the bottles. Lots of bottles. Good angel always had the booze in. Smart angel. So smart. But not about boom mountains. Stupid angel. He picked up two bottles, squinting at the labels, then threw one to - or maybe at - Aziraphale. “Need more.”

“ _Really_!” Angel always complaining even though he caught the thing. “I thought you could keep yourself warm! You’re a demon after all. You always said fire was your thing.”

Crowley tottered back to the couch and fell over on it. Nice couch. Big. Squishy. “S'not like that, hellfire. Don’t feel a bloody thing in it, do I? Looks all toasty warm, but it’s like- like-” He blew a raspberry. “S'not warm.”

The angel was looking at him, all serious and wrinkle-faced. “And you being a cold-blooded creature too…” He got up. “Stay here.”

“Tchoo mean cold-blooded?” Crowley twisted on the couch to follow Aziraphale with his eyes. “M'not cold-” He forgot his words when he fell off the edge of the couch. “Ow.” He pushed himself back up on his elbows. “Stupid couch.”

“Snake, my dear,” Aziraphale said when he came back from… Hell only knew where he’d wandered off to. He dropped a cloth on Crowley’s head. “They generally are.”

After several seconds of wrestling, Crowley subdued the bad cloth. Not cloth. Blanket. Woolly. Smelled like angel. Nice and thick and cosy. “M'not a snake,” he grumbled, wrapping it around him like a cloak and pulling it up to cover his head too. Like a cocoon. He pulled his knees up to his chest until every bit of him was covered ‘cept his face, so he could have another little drinkie. “Not anymore. Long time ago.”

“Almost six thousand years.” Angel sounded all soft. He was filling up his glass from the bottle. Bit of a waste of time that. Could just drink it straight from the bottle. S'easier.

Yeah.

Six thousand years soon.

Six thousand and never caught yet, but he’d heard all stories and that. End times coming and stuff. S'what it said, wasn’t it? A world that’d last six thousand years. Getting closer now. Only two anna bit cens- send- sense- hundred years.

When the big mountain went boom, some of them downstairs thought that was it. Signs and omens and all that. Getting everyone all excited.

Thing was…

The thing…

That’s the thing. He wasn’t excited. Not now.

End of the world… yay, right? S'what they were meant to do. But trouble with end of the world was the… world and end bit. End was bad. End meant no more bottles and fires and blankets that smelled of angel.

Trouble was…

Trouble was he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop from falling back in the day. Couldn’t stop the plan now. Best he could do was shove a foot in the door and not let it close on the world, not yet. S'not a good idea, though.

He hiccuped.

Anyway, wassa worse they could do? Send him to hell? Ha. No.

He took another little drink, hunching up over his knees.

“Are you all right?” Angel leaned down to look at him. “You’ve gone very quiet.”

Crowley nodded gloomily, staring at the fire. “Just cold,” he lied, first time he’d lied to Aziraphale in long, long, long, long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes: This is the [Year Without A Summer](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Year_Without_a_Summer), after an Indonesia volcanic eruption buggered the weather patterns for pretty much the entire world. Also an excuse to Aziraphale and Crowley to stay cosy indoors ;)


	43. 1825 – Edo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With Sushi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been dying to do this one for ages, but just couldn't figure out how and then did some reading and voila :D

“I can’t believe you just did that!”

Crowley strode onwards without looking back, a shadow lost in the mantle of the rain. “You know I make trouble wherever I go.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, hurrying after him, his geta clattering on the cobblestones, his waxed umbrella held high, raindrops drumming noisily on it. He had heard the news in the marketplace and when he had spotted the demon in the streets of the city, two and two had added up far too clearly. “But there’s trouble and there’s driving off foreigners completely! I hardly think that’s fair to the people here or out there. Isolationism is hardly beneficial to any society!”

Crowley stopped where he was and turned. Aziraphale could see the muscles in his jaw twitching and his hands clenching. The demon must’ve noticed his attention, because he shoved his hands inside the damp sleeves of his kimono.

“Tell me this,” he said through gritted teeth, “If Heaven told you to do the same, you’d do it, wouldn’t you?”

Aziraphale sighed unhappily. “Yes,” he agreed. “I suppose so.” He moved a little closer, tilting the umbrella so it sheltered the demon too. “But it really doesn’t seem fair at all.”

Crowley’s taut expression softened. “Does it ever?”

Aziraphale gazed at him. Lately, Crowley had been growing more and more gloomy and pessimistic. A sign of the times, Aziraphale supposed. Ever since that damned volcano had thrown the whole world into disarray, the poor fellow had never fully regained his good humour. He looked leaner too, whittled away, the sharp lines of his black kimono doing little to hide it.

Crowley shifted under his scrutiny. “What are you doing here anyway, angel? You never said anything about a job in these parts.”

Aziraphale pinked a little. “It’s more… follow-up than an actual task, I suppose,” he admitted. “I was in these parts last year. Divine inspiration. That sort of thing.” He shifted from foot to foot. “I was rather hoping to see how it all turned out.”

Crowley cocked his head, his tightly-bound-up hair gleaming by the light from a nearby lantern. “Art, music or food?”

“Pardon?”

One side of Crowley’s mouth twitched up. “I know you, angel. You wouldn’t follow up unless it was one of those three things.”

Aziraphale knew he ought to puff up with indignation and reproach, but it had been so long since Crowley had even tried to tease him that he simply put out his chin and folded his arms over the cream folds of his kimono, the ripple of the printed feathers on the sleeve overlapping his discreet blue and brown patterned obi. “If you must know, it’s food.”

“Ha!” The triumphant smile was barely a shadow of its former self. The demon glanced up the narrow street between the wooden houses, then back at the angel. “Should be off.”

Aziraphale reached out before he could stop himself, touching Crowley’s trailing sleeve. “Would you like to see?” he asked. It felt like an echo of a time, nearly two millennia ago. Wine and oysters to cheer a disheartened demon. Crowley’s lips narrowed to a line and to stave off the coming rejection, Aziraphale added, “They also have the most marvellous wine. They make it from rice!”

“Wine, eh?”

Aziraphale tugged lightly on his sleeve. “To celebrate your mischief?”

For a brief, aching moment, he could read the indecision and some other darker emotion in Crowley’s face, then the demon dipped his head.

“Go on, then. Let’s see what nonsense you’ve been putting in peoples’ heads now.”

Relief bubbled up with laughter and Aziraphale flapped a hand. “Oh, I can’t take all the credit,” he said, turning and motioning for Crowley to walk alongside him back in the direction of the river. Crowley’s zori-clad feet barely made a sound compared to his own clattering shoes on the wet road. “They’ve been using all the component parts for quite some time, the fellow I inspired was simply working on a new twist.”

Crowley chuckled quietly. “I’m appalled, angel,” he said, though it pained Aziraphale how flat and tired Crowley’s voice was. “Changing a classic? Are you sick?”

“Oh, hush,” he said, gently chiding.

Around them, the narrow street widened into one of the thoroughfares that led towards the water, the scent of the evening tide washing through the city. Lanterns glowed and bobbed outside the teahouses and eateries, the indigo banners flapping and snapping in the heavy autumn breeze.

From behind closed doors, the scents of hot pots and fragrant food drifted along with muted conversations and music and, occasionally, raucous laughter from the drinking houses. Though night was rapidly falling, the city was far from quiet.

“In here,” Aziraphale said, when he finally spotted the familiar doorway. The sliding door was open onto the street and inside, there was warmth and light. People were coming and going and he couldn’t help the little thrill of pleasure at the satisfied faces.

Fortunately, they were easily accommodated. He pretended not to notice the small and rather deliberate gesture Crowley made, especially not when it led to a small booth spontaneously emptying out, the guests hooting and laughing as they wove off into the evening.

The booth itself could easily have seated half a dozen people around the square table, flanked with wooden pillars and screens to separate them from the next table. A paper lantern on the wall gave everything a pleasantly soft glow.

Aziraphale slipped off his geta and knelt down at the low table, beaming up at Crowley. “Isn’t it charming?”

The demon folded down opposite him, slouching against the wall rather than kneeling. “Not exactly fancy, is it? Sitting on the floor?” The angel glanced at the very obvious wooden platform that all the booths were elevated on. “Fine, almost on the floor. Would’ve thought you’d demand a chair.”

Aziraphale gave him a stern look. “You know I never object to following local custom. Anyway, I rather like the mats they put down. They’re surprisingly comfortable.” He beamed at the server when she approached and wasted no time in requesting the chef’s latest creation as well as two bottles of sake.

“Two bottles?” Crowley said as the server trotted away. “You think we need that much?”

“They’ll be more than enough to make a start,” Aziraphale said primly. He folded his hands on the table and gazed around. “I do rather like it here. It’s such a shame that so many people won’t have the chance to experience it.”

Crowley groaned, slouching even lower against the wall. “Don’t go on about it,” he grumbled. “Probably won’t even last anyway. You know what Europe’s like. They’ll probably blow the doors off some time in the next few decades. Can’t have Johnny Foreigner refusing to do business, can you?” He made a face. “It’s amazing how persuasive you can be when you’ve got a bloody great canon.”

Aziraphale winced at the bitterness in Crowley’s voice. The accuracy of his statement was neither here nor there. “I suppose,” he allowed, then bowed his head respectfully when the server return, setting down the bottles and cups.

One of Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “What are those supposed to be?”

“Sake cups,” Aziraphale said, setting one in front of each of them.

“Cups?” Crowley pushed up from the wall. “They look like anorexic sugar bowls.” He wrinkled his nose. “See why you asked for two bottles. We could knock one back in one go.”

Aziraphale ignored him to pour a measure of sake into each of their cups. “Moderation is considered a virtue.”

“Mm-hm.” Crowley snorted. “You mean the appearance of moderation?” He pulled his cup closer, the base scraping across the polished table top. “Just because it’s a small cup doesn’t mean you have to stop filling it.”

Aziraphale smiled, picking up his own cup. “Precisely,” he said, raising it in a toast. “Kampai!”

That got a crooked grin out of the demon. “You’re really enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

“I like seeing a job well done,” Aziraphale said and took a generous sip of sake. It really was quite lovely stuff. “Where are you off to once you finish here?”

Crowley took a considerably more generous gulp from his cup and hissed through his teeth. “Oof!”

“Ah.” Aziraphale’s lips twitched. “Yes. That’s why I only got two small bottles. It has a bit of a kick.”

Crowley smacked his lips and eyed the cup, then knocked back the rest of the contents. “Good call,” he said.

Aziraphale leaned over the table to refill his cup. “So, where next?” he prompted.

Crowley shrugged. “No idea yet. You?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Much the same. I was considering exploring a little while I’m here. Take advantage of the warm weather.”

“And the wet,” Crowley grumbled. “Pisses down all the time.”

“It generally does in the rainy season,” Aziraphale observed, trying not to smile.

Crowley snorted, though it almost looked like he might smile. “Oh, shut up, angel.” He settled back against the side of the booth, knees jutting up between him and the table, his hands wrapped around the small sake cup.

They’d both worked their way through another cup each when the server returned with lacquered platters, which she set down on the table in front of them. Aziraphale made a sound of delight at the beautifully-presented little stacks of seafood and rice, decorated with sliced vegetables.

“Oh, it’s even better than I hoped!”

Crowley leaned forward, peering at it. “What’s in it?” He sniffed. “Doesn’t smell cooked.”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “It’s served cold, my dear.” He picked up a pair of chopsticks and studied the neat, identical little domes of rice. “It’s entirely made of rice and seafood.”

“Handy, being near the sea, then?”

Aziraphale nodded happily and deftly picked up the rice-ball and its tuna crown and delicate band of seaweed holding it all together. “They’ve been eating all the parts for _ages_ , but Hanaya had been playing with ways to improve it. I just gave him a gentle nudge.” He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Hm.”

“Not as good as it looks?” Crowley inquired, still eyeing it with suspicion.

Aziraphale scanned the array of platters and spotted the small dish among them. “Merely missing something,” he said. With a spot of soy sauce, the morsel was positively heavenly and he flapped his hand at Crowley as he chewed and swallowed. “Oh, you must try some!”

“Yeah,” Crowley said warily, picking up his own chopsticks. “But what _is_ it?”

“They call it Edomae zushi.”

“Sushi?” Crowley picked some up and took a mouthful. He chewed thoughtfully. “Y’know, I don’t see this taking off.”

Aziraphale plucked another piece and smiled knowingly. “On this occasion,” he said, admiring the colour of the tuna by the lamp light. “Let’s agree to disagree.”

“Story of my life,” Crowley said with an exaggerated shudder and twisted up his face. He took another drink from his cup, then considered it and held it out.

“To zushi?” Aziraphale suggested impishly.

For a moment, Crowley cracked a smile. “To your eternal, misplaced optimism,” he said. “Kampai!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historic Notes:**  
>  Sushi in various freeform styles existed in Japan from around the 1600s. In the 1820s, a chef called Hanaya Yohei is named as one of the possible creators of nigiri-sushi as it is known today.
> 
> In 1825, the Tokugawa shogunate put in place an Edict to Repel Foreign Vessels as an extreme response to pressure from the rest of the world to open up to commerce and trade. This edict would permit the use of deadly force to keep foreigners out of the country, which had been mostly closed for two centuries, except at specific and heavily monitored trading ports before that. In 1853, the Black Ships showed up off the coast of Japan, manned by Americans with big weapons and not so casual threats, and forced Japan to open up to the rest of the world again.


	44. 1846-1859 - London & Rome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With Crowley's Ever-Increasing Anxiety Attack

**1846 – Whitechapel**

Crowley hated prophets.

Always had, always would.

They were like the idiot who thinks it’s a good idea to kick a beehive, then acted surprised and offended when people complained about being stung. Most of them were frauds – which he could excuse – but some of them made work a lot harder than it needed to be. And what was worse was when they were right.

Most of them weren’t, but some of them got close enough that it was starting to make Crowley’s skin creep and the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

They were talking about Armageddon.

Not just one or two anymore. Every week, someone new popped up and their deadline was suddenly a lot shorter.

The volcano that turned the world icy three decades ago was the start of it all. His favourite comet hadn’t helped. The year after it appeared in the sky, Albrecht and Wesley started putting the fear of God into people. And now, a bunch of loonies were quoting Revelation and shouting from the rooftops about the End of Days and the coming of the Antichrist.

All fine and dandy for the humans who laughed at them and called them charlatans, but not so good when you go into Head Office and they’re just as excited as some of the nutters upstairs. Not long now, they were saying. It’s coming soon.

He’d grinned along with them, then fled back to his house and dug out the ancient battered copy of the Bible he kept locked up in his safe. It was like carrying a grenade around, that thing, but sometimes, it helped to know what everyone was thinking. Also, for coming up with better arguments to throw at the angel. He always got so offended by them.

Crowley put on his heavy alchemist’s gloves and lifted the book down onto his desk, turning the thick vellum pages all the way to the back. The book of Revelations might have been the ramblings of a sun-stroke addled madman on a mushroom high, but he’d got enough right that it was worth keeping an eye on.

Crowley adjusted his glasses to keep his eyes from burning as he read through it, his heart sinking with every word. The four horsemen were legends down below. Everyone had heard of them. If they were involved, then it wasn’t good. Combined with some of the Jewish theories about the timeline – bloody sacred numbers were always annoying – and all the other evidence, it didn’t sound promising.

He sank back in his seat, his hands trembling.

Shit, shit, shit.

They were right. It was coming. It was coming soon. A world that would last six thousand years. They were in the home stretch now. Hundred years left. Maybe two at a push. And then…

And then war.

The Fallen against the Heavens.

Demons against Angels.

The world didn’t matter to them. They didn’t care. It was just a convenient battlefield. It would be left in ash and ruin and no one upstairs or downstairs would even notice. They never had and they never would and everything would be gone and he would be expected to take up arms and stand with them and–

“Shit,” he whispered again.

He remembered the last battle. He remembered the fire in his wings and the pain and worse than anything else, feeling Her Grace being stripped away. It had been like the air in his lungs, as natural as breathing, and then it was gone and all he had done was ask. Was it so wrong to ask? Was it so wrong to wonder? Was _he_ so wrong?

When She had let him Fall, when the only world he had known was ripped from him, he had screamed and raged and wept, everything raw and painful and broken. He had been so sure he was ready to hate Her – hate them – hate everything about the world that had led to their undoing until he was allowed to seek daylight again and felt grass and stone beneath his feet…

And then an angel smiled at him.

Oh God.

 _Aziraphale_.

Lucifer, Beelzebub, the others – they wouldn’t show mercy. The only good angel, they often said, was a dead angel. And Aziraphale – the bloody stupid idiot – had given away his divine weapon. He wouldn’t be able to defend himself against them, not even if he wanted to.

Crowley felt sick, brutal, bloody images slithering unwanted across his vision.

And it wasn’t like he could stand against them, not all of them, if they came after the angel. They would as well. Everyone knew Aziraphale was the Heavenly beacon on earth. He would be a prime target for them, a symbolic kill, head on a pike to show that earth was their domain and battleground now.

“No, no, no…” Crowley keened, his whole body coiling in on itself in horror at the thought.

What the Heaven was he meant to do against the full might of the armies of Hell?

The only advantage he had was that they had no idea that he was sitting on the fence. It wasn’t much of a trump card, but it was better than nothing. They wouldn’t expect trouble from him, especially not for the sake of a Heavenly Principality.

Right.

Okay.

Element of surprise. That was something to use. Something they wouldn’t see coming. Enough to get him and Aziraphale safely out of the way if it came down to it. Anything beyond that, they could worry about when the time came, but now…

He pushed back from his desk. The low-level hum of the Bible’s power was making his skin itch and his head ache. He needed to be away, to think. Holiness was always so…

He froze, halfway out of the seat.

Holiness.

Well… no demon would ever see a holy attack coming from behind them.

He stared down at the Bible, until his face was aching from the prickling of the power. Couldn’t just use a bible. Running around whacking people on the head with a book was a solid mode of attack – Aziraphale had proved that one evening when Crowley had surprised him – but the Bible was more of a slow-burn on contact, not exactly the kind of thing to keep a powerful demon down for long.

Crucifixes?

Nah. Needed to get too close for them to be useful.

He swung out of the chair, pacing back and forward across the room. Relics fired out of a cannon, maybe? Saints could be pretty holy, but then there was the problem of sifting the real bones from the false ones. If he remembered right, the Habsburgs had three left thighs of John the Baptist last time he passed through. He was pretty sure one of those was a cow bone as well.

Also, a cannon wasn’t exactly the most subtle stab-someone-in-the-back weapon.

He went over to the window, looking out on the gloom of the city. Rain was rattling against the windows and he stared at the glass, putting out a finger to track a single from the middle of the pane to the bottom, where it merged with its brethren and flowed down into the gutters below.

“Oh…” he breathed.

Yes.

That–

It wouldn’t just hurt anyone who came after Aziraphale. It would stop them _dead_. Okay, yes, technically, if he managed to splash himself with it, he would be out of the equation as well, but that was the advantage of not being a complete moron. Precautions could be taken.

But killing…

He sank to sit against the edge of the window, pressing his shaking hands to the frame. It wasn’t as if he _wanted_ to harm anyone, but given a choice of someone like Hastur or the angel. Hell, given the choice of Hastur or himself, it was an easy answer. He was a demon. What were they expecting? Self-interest came with the territory.

“Shit,” he whispered again, knocking his head back against the glass. He pulled off his glasses and tugged off one glove with his teeth, so he could rub at his eyes.

It–

They had time. They had decades. That was plenty, wasn’t it? There had to be options. Some other way that didn’t mean killing one of his own. But if worst came to worst…

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to remember how to breathe and trying desperately not to think of what the worst could be, of the fire and brimstone and blood and bodies and Aziraphale gone, burned away by the wrath of Hell because Crowley wasn’t there, wasn’t fast enough, couldn’t – wouldn’t – didn’t stop them.

“Shut up,” he whispered. “Shut, up, shut up, shut up.”

 

______________________________________________

 

**1859 – Rome**

Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept.

It was after that volcano incident, but not much. That when things started going a bit squiffy. And definitely before some fancy wanker had decided to stick his name on the comet that the demon had considered his since time immemorial. Saw it first, Crowley had grumbled. Should be my name on it.  

Hell was still buzzing with excitement. Portents and doom were in the air. Prophets were still popping out of the woodwork. The proverbial clock was definitely ticking now. Everyone knew it, even if they didn’t know exactly when it was meant to chime.

The demon was crouched on his toes on the edge of the rooftop, staring out across Rome.

The Vatican pulsed with the power of faith, throbbing against his aching eyes. Everything about it made him want to scratch at his skin. If there was anywhere to steal a weapon, this was the place. Trouble was getting inside. Grabbing one of the Pope’s staffs or something blessed by him… not exactly a divine sword, but almost close enough?

The wind made Crowley’s coat flap around him. He shuddered and straightened up, stepping into the air and emerging on the street below.

Every step he took closer to the Basilica and the centre of the church’s power felt like tar was wrapping around his legs, slowing him down and forcing him back. Every step was harder and the closer he got, the tighter his skin felt, until he had to stop, staggering, gasping against a wall. Not even within a mile of the place and he could barely move.

No chance of getting there.

He swore furiously, miserably under his breath. What kind of demon was he if he couldn’t even find a way to steal a weapon of God?

Once he finally managed to gather the energy to retreat to a safe distance, he huddled in the shade of a building overlooking the Trevi fountain, drowning his frustrations in a pricy bottle of wine. Over the bustle of the city, he could hear the constant rush of the water on stone.

Crowley looked out of the window at the fountain, gleaming in the afternoon light.

Back to that, then.

Holy Water. The only substance that could truly kill a demon. Even crosses were only an inconvenience by comparison, but Holy Water…

“Shit,” he breathed against the rim of the glass.

Only place to get the stuff was in a church. Only way to get to it was to step on consecrated ground. If he couldn’t even walk up to the exterior wall of a bloody basilica, how was he even meant to get anywhere near their… well? Plumbing? Spring? Hell only knew where they kept it.

Could kidnap a Priest, he supposed. But a blessing over water under duress probably wouldn’t work anyway. And if he let a priest make some water holy for him, he’d probably find it being thrown in his face a second and a half later.

But he _had_ to get it. No choice anymore. If things went tits up – and all the signs said that they would some time in the not-too-distant-future – it was better to be ready for every eventuality.

Not from a priest. Impossible from a church. Maybe the angel could give him some advice…

Crowley lowered his glass, staring into space.

The _angel_.

Bloody hellfire.

All this time worrying about how to get the most fatal liquid known to his kind and all the while, he was friends with one of the only creatures in the world who could make it with nothing more than a gesture.

But he wouldn’t. He’d never. Not one of the most powerful weapons in Heaven’s arsenal. It had taken enough to persuade him to do temptations in the beginning. Several centuries of convincing him was all when and good when they had time, but they _didn’t_. Not anymore.

Crowley prodded at his glass, distracted. Other options first, he decided, and if there was no other way, that was the only time the angel needed to know. Better not to get him worried about what might be coming. He had enough pressure from above. He didn’t need any more.

“Right,” Crowley murmured. “How do I break into a church?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historic notes: In the early to mid-19th century there was a sudden surge in people prophesying the coming End of Times. It was mostly on account of the "world that will last six thousand years" reference and people trying to guestimate the maths. Needless to say there were a lot of wrong guesses.


	45. 1868-1941 - The Estrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With a Sad and Lonely Angel and a Depressed Demon

**1868 – St. James’s Park, London**

The fob watch was cold and heavy.

Aziraphale glanced anxiously at it again, then looked around the park. There was no sign of Crowley anywhere. Even the ducks were peering at the angel suspiciously, as if wondering why someone would be trying conspire alone.

It was dreadfully rare for Crowley to miss a meeting at their appointed rendezvous. The demon was occasionally late, which he claimed was a default state for him and his kind. That or obsessively punctual with no middle-ground. But this was the third time in as many years.

Aziraphale pocketed his watch, then resumed feeding handfuls of seed to the ducks, but it felt automatic, rather than a pleasure today.

He could remember the last words they had exchanged and now, thinking back on them, he wondered if he – they had both been too harsh. He had panicked. What else had Crowley expected of him, asking such a ridiculous thing?

Such a demand could only have one end and Crowley was not a demon to kill, which meant there was only one use he might have for the… the requested substance. He had not seemed suicidal, but sometimes with Crowley, it was very difficult to tell what he was thinking or planning.

No. No! He couldn’t let his mind wander down those roads again. Crowley was alive. He would have known if anything had happened to him. He _would_ have. So it followed that Crowley was either very late or simply ignoring him.

 _I don’t need you_.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. Strange how much words could hurt as much as a blow. 

Rain started pattering down and he groped for the watch again. Almost an hour late now.

There was no point lingering in the rain. He dusted the seed off his gloves, then turned and made his way along the winding path by the pond towards the gates by Horseguards.

“Oh, I do hope he’s all right,” he murmured.

 

* * *

 

 

**1868 – Whitechapel, London**

A sliver of daylight broke in between the curtains, cutting across the vast four-poster bed. It was the only item of furniture in the bare room apart from a small table, upon which there was a small pile of unopened letters, each one sealed with gold wax and stamped with an A. The floor was littered with bottles, some empty, some full, and the walls bare and blank except for a single drawing of an enigmatically-smiling woman.

“Gnah,” someone muttered from beneath a pile of blankets on the bed. A pale hand poke out and snapped its fingers. The curtains shifted and the daylight vanished.

A few seconds later, the pile of blankets resumed snoring.

 

* * *

 

 

**1871 – Holborn, London**

The solitary man painted a forlorn portrait near the bar. The chair on the opposite side of the table had remained empty for much of the evening and by degrees, the man’s expression drifted from amiable to melancholic.

Theodore tapped his own glass against his lip. This was not a bar that gentlemen came to in order to sit alone. He smiled slightly, then made his way between the tables and chairs to sit down opposite the fair-haired man.

The man’s face lit up. “Crow–” He broke off, his expression giving way to misery once more. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”

“I could not help but notice you seemed terribly mournful,” Theodore said with his best and most winsome smile. “Can I be the one to cheer you?”

The man stared at him blankly for a moment. He was a charming-looking fellow, pleasantly plump with round cherubic cheeks and unruly blond curls in a halo about his head. “I– I’m afraid I’m waiting for someone.”

Theodore leaned forward. “You seem to have been waiting for a devilish long time.”

The man dropped his eyes to the cup between his hands, looking even more forlorn than before. “Yes,” he agreed unhappily. “Devilish long.”

Theodore leaned back in his chair, raising a hand to catch the barkeeper’s eye. “Then I shall keep you company until your friend arrives.” He adjusted his smile to a softer one that the more sentimental and discerning gentleman usually appreciated. “I’m sure he shan’t be long.”

The man’s expression brightened a little. “That’s awfully kind of you…” He hesitated. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

That, Theodore thought triumphantly, was always a promising sign. “Theodore Lockhart,” he said, extending his hand across the table to the man.

“Az… Um… Alexander Fell.” He reached out and politely shook Theodore’s hand. “Thank you.”

Theodore laughed warmly as the barkeeper approached with a bottle of Theodore’s favourite wine. “Oh, it’s purely self-indulgence, Alexander,” he said, surprised when the man didn’t protest the use of his Christian name. “You see, I was rather lonely too.”

“Oh?” The man gave Theodore his full attention for the first time and for a moment, Theodore felt his usual manners falter. Alexander’s eyes were intense and clear as if they could see right through him. Oh, he was _lovely_.

Perhaps it was terribly hasty, but he reached over and covered Alexander’s hand with one of his own. “Perhaps… we can be friends?”

Alexander’s gaze dropped to their hands. His own was motionless under Theodore’s and for a moment, Theodore wondered if he had made a terrible misjudgement. Then those remarkable eyes returned to his face. “Perhaps. For now, company will be enough.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

**1871 – Whitechapel, London**

The room was still dark. The frame of the painting was a little dustier. So were the blankets on the bed. A single foot poked out from beneath the covers, scalier and darker than a foot had any right to be.

 

* * *

 

 

**1876 – Oxford**

“I knew it would impress you!”

Aziraphale smiled indulgently at his human companion. He had had several of them in the past few years, though inevitably they all drifted away. Each of them seemed to expect something of him – some ineffable thing they dared not speak of – which he lacked to means to understand or to give.

If he was to be entirely honest with himself, some small part of him was relieved.

They were sweet-natured young men, charming and enthusiastic, but they lacked something, and if they chose to withdraw from him, then he didn’t have to worry about it. It was far worse to be left behind by someone you believed had cared.

_I have plenty of other people to fraternise with._

As much as he hated to admit it, he still missed the damned demon, no matter how many lovely young men he crossed paths with.

Still, Crowley was the one who had stopped responding to his messages, so eventually, Aziraphale had reached out to find every letter he had sent since that awful day in the park and turned them to ash where they lay. If Crowley was going to ignore him, then he would… just do the same thing.

So far, he had managed to go almost five years without sending any messages. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t written them. There was an embarrassingly large stack that he tried to ignore every time he sat down at his desk. But they hadn’t been sent. That was the important thing.

“The architecture has always been quite splendid,” he said as Nicodemus slipped his arm through Aziraphale’s.

Nicodemus – son of an upstanding merchant – had bumped into him when the angel had given a reading in the British Museum. It been a peculiar whim after one too many nights alone in his shop, an empty glass sitting on the table.

And so, he had done a reading of Mediaeval literature and his latest companion had attended.

He was a student at the university, in town to visit the museum, and had been appalled to hear that Aziraphale had not visited Oxford for at least twenty years. It was really closer to one-hundred and fifty, but the young man didn’t need to know that. Another peculiar whim.

Call it what it is, angel, he chided himself. A distraction.

“That’s not all I brought you here for,” Nicodemus confided, his dark eyes shining. “I have someone who is dying to meet you.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale tried to maintain his smile. More often than not, his companions’ friends had proved less than stimulating company. “And who might that be?”

For once, it was someone who proved entirely worth meeting.

The long-limbed young man unfolded from his couch as Aziraphale and Nicodemus entered. He was tall, with compelling features that were not quite handsome. His hair dark hair was tumbling about his shoulders, his clothes exquisite and far more extravagant than the average human’s.

“Oscar,” Nicodemus sounded beside himself with giddiness. “This is my… friend, Mr. Fell. Mr. Fell, this is my good chum, Oscar Wilde.”

Aziraphale offered his hand to the young man, fascinated. One could always spot an artist. They had a particular energy about them and this one… oh, he positively glowed. “A delight to make your acquaintance, Mr. Wilde.”

A flash of a smile crossed the young man’s face. “My friends,” he said, his mellifluous voice rich as honey, “call me Oscar.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

**1876 – Whitechapel, London**

A spider scuttled across the pillow, scrambling over a motionless hand.

There was a quiet grumble from the depths of the bedding, then the hand moved, twitching the spider away. The same hand reached down, leaving the covers as little as possible, groping around on the floor.

It made two journeys.

One for one of the few full bottles that remained and the other for the chamber pot.

Twenty minutes later, the pile of blankets started snoring again.

 

* * *

 

 

**1882 – Portland Place, London**

“If you’re absolutely sure I won’t be imposing?”

Lord Arthur Somerset grinned at the man sitting opposite him in the carriage. “Entering at my side? You’ll be welcomed like a Prince, Master Fell.”

The fair-haired man smiled bashfully. “Well, there’s no need for that.”

Somerset regarded him with fond amusement. The man was not a gentleman by the commonly accepted standards, but they had crossed paths at one salon or another and had fallen in together quite nicely. Fell was a little older than Somerset himself, well-spoken, eloquent and well-educated. Not the type that usually caught his eye at all.

However, he had a particular naïve charm which had fascinated the aristocrat far more than it ought to have and which vexed him even more when Fell seemed utterly oblivious to his more pressing advances.

“Ah!” Somerset declared as the carriage drew up outside the building. “Here we are.” He gave Fell a wicked smile. “You still can change your mind. I’m not here to tempt you, after all.”

Fell smiled back at him, although for a moment, it almost looked forced. “Well, I’m here now and I would quite like to see what all the fuss is about.”

Somerset stepped down from the carriage first, then offered Fell his hand to assist him down. Most other men would have recoiled or puffed up in indignation, but Fell only took his hand, smiled that charming smile of his and said “thank you” as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Somerset darted a tongue along his lower lip.

Once the man saw the inside of the club, _surely_ he would grasp Arthur’s intentions towards him. After all, the Hundred Guineas Club had a particular kind of reputation and even someone as refreshingly innocent as Fell couldn’t fail to notice that.

He offered Fell his arm. “Will you join me, then?”

Fell’s smile creased lines into the softness of his face. “I would be delighted.”

 

* * *

 

**1882 – Whitechapel, London**

One of the pillows had ended up on the floor. A foot was resting on the other. The owner of the foot was buried back under the wine-stained blankets. His head hadn’t emerged for almost six months.

 

* * *

  
 

**1900 – Paris**

“Oh, my dear…”

Oscar forced his eyes open, though it took what little strength he had left. The door had not opened, nor had he heard the ascent of anyone upon the creaking staircase, but a man was seated by him on the very lip of the bed, his ageless face stricken with grief.

“Mr. Fell,” he breathed, every word a throbbing blade through his skull. “A pleasure.”

The man leaned closer, gathering up Oscar’s hand to his breast as if to keep him from slipping from the mortal coil. “I ought to have come sooner,” he said, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “It has all been so dreadful and then I heard you were ill…”

Oscar closed his eyes, drawing a slow and aching breath. “Nonsense,” he murmured. “I could not ask that of you.”

Fell laid his hand, light as featherdown, on Oscar’s chest and for a moment, the pain in his head receded like a wave ebbing from the shore. “All the same,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

It was as if the chill of the damp little room had been swept away. There was comfort and warmth of a sort that Oscar had only ever written of, thrumming through his weary body down to his bones, brushing aside all shame and bitterness and anger.

He opened his eyes to look at Fell.

Even though the room was dark, the windows shuttered against the winter’s bitter cold, Fell shone as bright as a sun.

“Who are you?” Oscar breathed, unable to tear his eyes away. “ _What_ are you?”

Fell – if that was even his name – smiled his heart-breakingly beautiful smile. “I’m your friend,” he whispered.

And behind him, wings of purest divine light unfurled and, for the last moments of his life, Oscar could swear he looked upon the face of Heaven.

* * *

  
 

**1900 – Whitechapel, London**

Someone had decided that the property must be empty after so many years. Made sense. No one had come or gone in almost half a century. Who wouldn’t try and break into a place like that and see if they couldn’t steal a bit more space for themselves and their family.

The bold – and stupid – intruder went in bravely enough.

When he came out, he was grey-faced, his hair turned white as snow, and for seventh months, he didn’t say a word.

And when he finally spoke, he only had two words.

“Stay away.”

 

* * *

  
 

**1916 – Verdun-sur-Meuse**

It would have been a lovely summer’s afternoon, if not for the bombardment.

Aziraphale had always hated battlefields, but with every leap forward in the weapons of war, they became more bloody and terrible. The best he could do was offer flickers of hope and once in a while, a whisper of a miracle. They were becoming fewer and further between as hope faltered and the mud churned up, scarlet and black and rotting.

He had broken his promise to himself.

He had tried his utmost to be resolved, to show Crowley that he was neither needed nor wanted, but Lord, he was so very tired.

He had written. Once in 1914, when he felt the tremors through Europe of the coming war, then again after Ypres. And then, every battle, he had sat among the soldiers on either side, scratching letters, sending them with a prayer that they would reach him.

A dozen letters, maybe more, and not a single response.

He had hoped that Crowley would remember all the battlefields they had walked before. There had been so many. It felt strange to face a battle without the demon there, picking at him, teasing him and making faces at him from the opposite side.

Aziraphale turned his face towards the sun, where it was peeping over the edge of the trench.

Was it too much to hope that their friendship counted for something? He was so sure it had. Surely… surely, such a little argument couldn’t undo all those centuries and millennia? Yes, Crowley could be stubborn, but surely not that stubborn.

He rubbed at his eyes, sunspots dancing behind his lids, then sighed and miracled up another piece of paper.

_It’s lovely here today. It reminds me of Noricum in the summer. Do you remember that siege? Those damned boars? Less Celts, although it smells about the same. If you have a little time–_

He gazed down at the paper, then crushed it in his hand.

So many letters and no response. Why expect one now?

Further down the trench, there was a shout and the soldiers started mobilising. Aziraphale got back to his feet, aching with fatigue. It was going to be a long year.

 

* * *

  
 

**1917 – Whitechapel**

The blankets had disintegrated and been replaced with newer, bigger ones. There were more crates of wine on the floor. Possibly miracled. He wasn’t sure. Didn’t really care, as long as the world stayed nice and fuzzy and quiet and with no stupid thoughts about any stupid angels and their stupid stupid moral high grounds.

Crowley shoved his head deeper under the pillows.

He didn’t hear the whisper of the neglected, dusty pile of letters slipping over on the table and spilling onto the floor.

 

* * *

 

 

**1941 – Soho, London**

Aziraphale straightened his tie and smoothed the lines of his coat.

As much as he hated to admitted, there was something invigorating about playing against type.

It was – he was absolutely certain – nothing to do with almost a millennia of performing both temptations and blessings. No. Certainly not. But who wouldn’t like to outwit the latest evil to rise from the mind of humanity?

It was a gloomy night, the moon a thin crescent. The perfect night for villainy and mischief.

He smiled as he picked up the bundle of books. Or for thwarting it.

 

* * *

  
 

**1941 – Whitechapel**

Two years was a hell of a long time to try and shake a hangover.

‘Parently, there was in fact a threshold for the amount of booze a single demon could imbibe without being physically capable of willing himself sober. That had been a long bugger of a lesson to live through.

Still, it’d given him a bit of time to catch up on things he’d missed while he was having a nap.

There’d been a few wars. One bloody big one from the sound of it. ‘Great’. Humans always did like to use weird words to describe awful things. Not that he felt guilty about leaving the angel in the deep end. Nope. Not at all. Wasn’t like they’d done a mess of wars together.

Weren’t even any messages from the bastard. Not one.

Okay, yeah, there were some suspiciously papery-looking piles of ash on his table and his floor, but Az– the angel would never destroy the written word. S’like an allergic reaction. He’d probably come out in hives over it.

Crowley rubbed at his eyes again. They felt like they’d been replaced with two dusty snooker balls, grating against the inside of his eyelids.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” He focussed all his wobbly power inwards, around the still thumping headache, and almost cried – in a very cool and manly way – when he felt the alcohol finally seeping out of his system. The pain in his head vanished and the world stopped spinning just enough for him to sag with relief. “Thank G– er… me.”

It took another couple of hours before his brain felt like it wasn’t about to dribble out of his ear.

It was another three before – just out of morbid curiosity – he let his awareness stretch out. Not because he wanted to check on him or anything, but just to see where the stupid angel was.

Huh.

In the city. North bank of the Thames. In a bloody church of all places.

Crowley paused, frowning.

Carefully, he let his power do a rerun through his sodden corporation, because he couldn’t be sensing what his still-kind-of-pickled brain was telling him was there. Then he focussed on the church and the other people inside it. Their souls had a very, _very_ familiar flavour and he risked a taste of their intentions.

“Oh holy fuck!”

 

* * *

  
 

**1941 – Soho, London**

Aziraphale had been quiet for the whole drive back to his shop.

Crowley wasn’t sure what he could say.

The minute he saw his bloody stupid angel standing in the church – even though he was surrounded by Nazis and had a gun pointed at him – all the anger he’d been trying to drown out with far, far, far too much alcohol evaporated like it had never been there.

Even if Aziraphale had seemed annoyed to see him, even if he’d been forced to dance about like an idiot to avoid getting his feet burned, even if they’d parted on bad terms, all he could think about was the fact that Aziraphale would be all right.

And his books, of course. He would have been useless if he’d lost his books. Probably even done something as stupid as get infinitely drunk and unconscious for a few decades.

Still, eighty years was a long time. They hadn’t been apart for that long, not for millennia, and finding the words to fill in the gap seemed impossible.

“Here we are then,” he finally broke the silence as he pulled up outside the shop. He’d even driven a bit slower than usual, but that was mostly because of bombs. Almost mostly. Partly.

Aziraphale didn’t immediately move to get out. “Crowley,” he said quietly, looking down at his hands, which were wrapped around the handle of the stolen Nazi case which he had on his lap.

“Yeah?”

“Where… where were you?”

Crowley fiddled with the steering wheel of the Bentley. “Um.”

Aziraphale took a small, quiet breath. “It– I was worried.”

“Ohhhh…” Crowley winced, trying his best to sound casual. “You know me. I keep out of trouble.”

“Yes.” He heard the rustle of fabric and turned his head to find Aziraphale gazing at him. God, he’d missed that stupid bloody angel. “I remember.” Aziraphale looked like he was trying not to cry, a weak smile crossing his lips. “Did you have a good time?”

Enough alcohol to resink the Titanic. Miserably hiding away from everything and everyone. Avoiding the only person who had ever given a shit about him.

For once, he didn’t want to bluff and act like everything was fine. “No.” He tried to force a smile. “It was rubbish.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked back down at the case. “Would– I have a bottle of Chateau-neuf–”

The thought of any more drinks made Crowley’s stomach twist. “No.”

The angel’s face fell. “Oh.”

God, he hated seeing him like that, especially when they were finally finding their way back to some kind of truce.

“I had a rough couple of… decades…” He winced again. “No wine, yeah? Maybe – and I can’t believe I’m saying this – a cup of tea?”

It was as if he’d switched a light on behind Aziraphale’s eyes. “Oh, that would be lovely. I may even have some biscuits.”

Crowley couldn’t help laughing at that. “Of course you do.” He pushed his door open. “C’mon then, angel.”

When Aziraphale beamed at him, he couldn’t keep from smiling in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting to write this so promptly, especially not after the last big chapter, but this came crashing into my head in the small hours of the morning and the best thing to do in those circumstances is get it out as fast as possible. Mostly, I blame multiple posts about Crowley's canonical almost-century nap and the fact it's what he did after the St. James's Park breakup of 1862, while Aziraphale went out and joined the 100 Guinea Club and was in the top tier of gay London society. And how could I possibly leave out the opportunity to include Oscar?
> 
> Historic notes -  
> 1876 - Oscar Wilde was already gaining infamy for being ridiculous flamboyant and dressing like a louche lounge-lizard when he was at Oxford.  
> 1882 - The Hundred Guineas Club was one of Victorian London's most notorious upper class gay clubs, where people rich enough to pay the membership could bring their sex workers to indulge. There was also cross-dressing and dancing and all kinds of drag shenanigans. One of the Princes was rumoured to visit regularly along with Somerset. Somerset was later involved in a gay sex scandal and was forced to leave the country.  
> 1900 - Oscar Wilde was jailed, defamed and ended up dying of meningitis in exile and poverty in Paris.  
> 1916 - The Battle of Verdun was one of the bloodiest of World War I.
> 
> Meanwhile, Crowley is sleeping and drinking his way through depression.


	46. 1946 – The Third Circle of Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One Where Crowley Comes Clean (and There Are Questions about Temptations)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there are repercussions for the Estrangement and Certain Questions go unanswered.

Crowley’s palms were sweating.

That wasn’t a good sign.

Okay, yeah, he’d kind of… slept through most of the last century, neglected any paperwork or memos to the head office and ignored at least a dozen summons from various demons. Technically he could claim disobedience wasn’t in his remit, but then there was the fact he _hadn’t_ been doing anything for almost eighty years.

That was a big gap of temptation and sin across the world and someone was bound to have noticed, no matter what he had told Aziraphale in the past.

The fact that he’d heard mutters and whispers from the minute he set foot in the first circle didn’t exactly fill him with confidence. Whispers usually meant people talking and down here, people talking was never a good thing.

He squeezed through the flow of traffic, more worried that relieved when people started stepping aside for him, and headed down to the appointed meeting chamber for his long overdue meeting with Lord Beelzebub and the other earth-bound demons.

Definitely didn’t help that he was late.

Ha paused outside the door, straightened his glasses and his coat, then strode in, arms outstretched like a damned saint. “Hell-come home, am I right?” He swept into an extravagant bow. “Lord Beelzebub, my apologies for my tardiness.”

The high Lord of Hell waved a hand. “That will be unnecessary, demon Crowley.”

He almost froze on the spot, but forced himself to straighten up. “Oh?”

“Mm.” Their voice was a hum of the swarm that surrounded them. “Given the circumstancezzzzz, paperwork may be overlooked.”

“Circumstances?” He looked around the room, frantically scanning the faces of the other demons, trying to work out what the mood was meant to be. Good for him? Bad for him? Bad for someone else? Oh, please God, Satan and everyone, it was bad for someone else.

His eyes finally settled on Hastur. The demon was the best barometer. If Crowley was in trouble, it would show on his face, but right now, his face looked more like a slapped arse than usual and Crowley almost sighed in relief.

“The wars.” Beelzebub unfolded from their elaborate chair – never a throne, though. Lucifer wouldn’t like that. “Very impressive.”

“The w– oh. Oh! Yeah!” He hooked his thumbs into his belt and grinned as widely as he could, hoping the lies weren’t reeking on his every word. “Yeah. Well. You know humans. Give them an inch and they’ll do a mile with a bit of encouragement.”

“Our Master was very pleazzzed with you.”

“Oh.” The smile faltered a bit. “Goodie.” He hesitated then carefully said, “And before the wars, I wasn’t exactly…”

“Managing a great deal of corruption in London,” Beelzebub said. “We know it izzzz rare for you to focus on single souls, but these ones were tempted well.”

“In London?” Crowley squinted at them. “Oh, yeah. London. I mean, we all know London’s the place to go if you want to start something like that. Den of sin and iniquity, whores and… all that stuff, yeah.”

“And it spread,” Hastur said grudgingly. He sounded like he wanted to swallow his own tongue. “There was even mention of it in the American colonies.”

“They prefer the United States these days,” Crowley put in helpfully, still baffled. Every demon in Hell knew London was his jurisdiction, but someone had been tempting people while he was arse in the air under his blankets? He would’ve known about it. Would’ve felt it, surely? “If you don’t mind me asking, what was so special about those ones? I mean, it was a nice change of pace, but didn’t think it was going all that well.”

Beelzebub grinned, showing their dark, rotting teeth. “Your encouragement to lust and envy were particularly well done.”

Lust and envy?

Crowley was definitely out of his depth. Possibly without a paddle. There were no metaphors for exactly how bewildered he was. Lust wasn’t one of his big go-to temptations. Too easy, for one thing, and he wasn’t really one to see what humans might lust after beyond some random part of the anatomy. Mind you, there was that one time he made that one man go gaga for someone’s eyeballs. Ended up a bit messier than expected.

Instead, he just bowed again with a bit of extra hand-waving. “Glad to have been of such great service, my Lord.”

________________________________________

 

**1946 - Soho, London**

 

“Angel?”

Aziraphale finished pouring the wine before he looked up. “Hm?”

Crowley was sprawled on the horsehair couch, a vague, puzzled look on his face. “You know when we– I mean, a few years back… mid-century… did you do any of my work?”

Even though they were back on speaking terms now, the thought of that awful period when they were not made Aziraphale’s heart clench. “I’m afraid not,” he said, offering Crowley one of the glasses. “I assumed you were doing your work and I was doing mine and that was the end of the matter.”

A flicker of some emotion Aziraphale could not decipher flashed across Crowley’s face and as ashamed as he was to do so, he reached out and felt the tenor of guilt.

“You… _were_ doing your duties?”

Crowley winced, swaying a little from side to side. That was never a good sign, his most serpentine aspects emerging when he was anxious. “Not… exactly.”

Aziraphale stared at him, then sank down into his chair. Heaven would have come down upon him like the wrath of God if he had failed in his duty. He could only imagine how much worse Crowley’s managers would be. “Oh no.” He took a fortifying sip of his wine, swallowing hard around it. “So… if you don’t mind me asking, what were you doing?”

The word was muffled by the glass at Crowley’s mouth.

“What was that?”

“Sleeping! I was sleeping, all right? I went home and I drank six crates of wine and slept.”

“For eight decades?” Aziraphale laughed in disbelief, but it faded when Crowley didn’t laugh too.

The demon’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Yeah.” He shrugged a bit. “Didn’t have anything to get up for, did I?”

It felt as if all the air had left the room. “Oh, _Crowley_ …”

Crowley flapped a hand. “Don’t start! I’m up now. See? In your shop, drinking your wine.” He gave the glass a shake, the wine swirling. “Nothing to worry about.”

He was trying to hide behind the familiar bluster and show, but Aziraphale could remember their last conversation before their disagreement. It had been far more desperate than he realised. For Crowley to do that, to close himself away…

And on top of it all, he had left his work undone!

“Oh!” A horrifying thought stabbed at him. “Oh, my dear, you’re not in… trouble, are you? With your people? I mean, if you haven’t been meeting your quotas, I don’t imagine they’re best pleased.”

Crowley hooked a finger around his glasses, pulling them off and peering at them. “Funny thing,” he said, frowning. “They seem to think I was keeping on top of everything.” He laughed shortly, puzzled. “’Parently they think I had something to do with the wars.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to tartly point out that he probably had when the eight-decade-sleeping crept back into his mind. That wasn’t something Crowley would joke about, not when things were still so tenuous between them. “They don’t know?”

Crowley shook his head moodily. “And,” he added, “turns out I’ve been sending out lust and envy all over the place. Said I’d gone and focussed on a few people and nudged them a bit further in our direction.” He peered over at Aziraphale. “You sure you didn’t do any tempting?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I only did my duties.” He paused, recalling those exhausting years, which had only been bearable because of the procession of young men willing to entertain, though few of them lasted very long. “I made a few friends, though most of them are long gone now.”

“Yeah?” He didn’t need his senses to hear the whisper of wary jealousy in the demon’s voice.

Better not to prod a wound still so tender. “As I said, they’re long gone now.” He frowned. “Surely I would have known if there was another demon. London is mine. I could sense an infernal being anywhere.”

“Yeah.” Crowley took a swig from his glass. “That’s what I thought.”

Aziraphale turned his glass between his hands, the wine catching the light from his table lamp. “Do you think they tempted themselves, perhaps?” he offered, though he knew it was a weak argument.

“For my lot to pick up on it, someone from one of our sides had to be involved.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I dunno, angel. Right now, I don’t really care as long as they aren’t about to rip my arse through my mouth.”

Aziraphale winced. “Oh, Lord. Yes, better that they don’t suspect.” He hesitated, then gently said, “I’m very sorry.”

Crowley’s face twisted in confusion. “For what?”

“Making you feel that was your only option.”

The demon gaped at him. “Sod off, angel,” he snorted, sliding down the couch to slouch in an impressive display of forced nonchalance. “You’re not that special.”

Crowley was many things. A good liar was not one of them.

“I know,” Aziraphale murmured, “and I’m still sorry.”

The demon made an inarticulate sound, averting his eyes. “Just… more wine, yeah?”

The angel nodded, reaching for the bottle. “Yes,” he agreed. “More wine.”


	47. 1952 - Soho, London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With Magic

“Now, are you ready?”

Crowley nodded, still bemused. Of all the hobbies for Aziraphale to pick up, this wasn’t one he’d expected. Still how bad could it be? Angels had celestial powers after all. An angel doing magic wasn’t exactly new, but it was unusual to see Aziraphale get so excited about anything that wasn’t food or paper bound in leather.  

The angle was doing his best to shuffle a pack of cards. “Oops! Butterfingers!” He beamed at Crowley as half a dozen cards fluttered to the table. “I haven’t practised in quite some time.”

“Mm.” Crowley eyed the cards noncommittally. “When you said magic, I didn’t think you were talking card tricks.”

“I was very good at them,” the angel said happily, though another couple of cards slipping from his hands suggested the angel was better at lying. He gathered up the fallen cards, squaring them back into the deck and Crowley bit his tongue to stop himself pointing out that the Joker probably wasn’t meant to be in there. “Now!” The angel fanned the cards out. “Pick a card.”

There was one card sticking a little further out than the rest and the attempted innocence on Aziraphale’s face almost made Crowley groan. Still, he owed the angel, especially after the past century, so he took the very obviously displayed card. The six of diamonds.

“What now?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Now,” Aziraphale hesitated, frowning as he tried to recall. “Ah! Now, you put it back in the pack.”

Crowley complied, then propped his elbow on the table so he could cover his mouth to hide his hand as Aziraphale tried – unsuccessfully – to shuffle the cards.

“Is this–” The jack of clubs was whipped out of the pack with a flourish. “Your card?”

“Mm-mm.” Crowley shook his head, pressing his lips together behind his fingers.

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked at the pack indignantly. “Are you sure?”

“Mm hm.”

“This one?” The four of spades.

“Nope.”

“Oh. Hm.” Aziraphale turned the deck over, staring at it as if it had betrayed him.

Crowley let him offer up two more wrong cards before tapping twice on the table. One card slipped up a little further out of the pack and Aziraphale, oblivious to the flicker of a miracle, whipped it out and held it up. “Is this your card?”

Crowley nodded, trying desperately hard not to laugh. “Yup. That’s the one.”

The angel’s face split into a brilliant smile. “I _knew_ I could still do it!” He put the pack down. “Oh, I have to show you my coin trick!”

“Go on, then,” Crowley said, hoping the strangled mirth in his voice wasn’t too noticeable.

Five minutes later, the angel was still on his hands and knees on the floor, trying to recover the coin, which had bounced and rolled straight under one of his bookshelves.

“Couldn’t have done that if you tried,” Crowley said, sprawling back in his chair. “Real magic, that. You made the coin disappear.”

“I’m just a little out of practice,” Aziraphale said over his shoulder. “Once I’m warmed up, it’ll be better.”

“Mm.” A flicker of Crowley’s fingers made the coin slide within the angel’s reach. “Can’t wait.”


	48. 1969 - New York City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With The Moon

The picture on the screen was flickering and dancing, but like every other patron in the packed bar, Crowley was mesmerised.

It was daft, really. He’d been there at the beginning. He’d watched as God gave shape to the universe. Hell, there were a few galaxies out there that had his fingerprints all over them.

This was different, though.

This was humans. Tiny little scrabbling anxious humans were reaching for the stars. They had cobbled together metal, harnessed fire and discovered how useful long-liquidised or gasified dead things could be. And now, they were about to go where even Crowley hadn’t set foot and it was _brilliant_.

The astronaut emerged and through the tinny speakers, his words carried out across the world. “One small step for man. One giant leap for mankind.”

“ _Beautiful!_ ” Crowley exclaimed to no one in particular. “Wonder how long he practised in the mirror to get that right.”

The figure on the screen bobbed across the rocky surface, so small and so far away, and for some daft reason he couldn’t understand, Crowley found himself thinking of Eden. He frowned to himself, wondering why the hell that would have come to mind. 

A glimpse of the journey humans had made, maybe? Naked in a garden six millennia ago and now, hopping around on the moon like they owned it. 

No. Not that. 

He propped his chin in his hand, watching and picking through his memories and it hit him all at once. 

_Why not put it on top of a high mountain? Or on the moon?_

Ha! Of course. The first time he had properly confused Aziraphale and gave him something to think about that wasn’t duty, gardens or celestial harmonies all the day long. It happened a lot in the early days, as they both picked their way through the puzzle that was their friendship. 

__They hadn’t seen each other for a while. He wasn’t even sure why._ _

__It was about the night when Aziraphale had given him the flask._ _

__There was no doubt about that, but he wasn’t sure if he was avoiding Aziraphale or Aziraphale was avoiding him. Maybe it was both, so they wouldn’t have to talk about it. About going too fast or not at all. He’d slowed down. Almost to a stop too. If that was what Aziraphale needed, he was fine with it and so, they hadn’t seen each other and now… now, he wished they’d watched the landing together._ _

__Aziraphale would have appreciated it as much as he did. He was always behind on the times, but even he couldn’t ignore how far their humans had come._ _

__Crowley leaned back on his stool, looking around._ _

__The bar had a phone on the wall with an Out of Order sign on it. That would have to do._ _

__He swung down off the stool and strode over, snatching the receiver from the cradle. A quick tap brought it back to some kind of working order and he held his hand over the dial, which started whirling, dialling in Aziraphale’s shop number._ _

__It took three attempts before the angel picked up._ _

__“For heaven’s sake! The shop is closed!”_ _

__Something fluttered in Crowley’s chest. God, he’d missed his stupid friend. “Nice to hear from you too, angel.”_ _

__There was a small hitch, almost a gasp. “Crowley?”_ _

__“Listen, d’you have a working television?”_ _

__“You know I don’t,” Aziraphale said indignantly. “What’s this about?”_ _

__Crowley groaned. Of course he bloody didn’t. It had taken long enough to persuade him to install a phone, even if he didn’t answer it half the time. “There’s something you need to see on the telly. Go to any pub. They’ll be showing it.”_ _

__“In a pub?” He sounded puzzled. “What are they showing?”_ _

__“Let’s just say that if she’d put it up there, the humans would have got to it in the end.”_ _

__“I don’t–”_ _

__“Just… go find a television!” Crowley hung the receiver back up, wondering how in the nine hells he’d ended up best of friends with a technophobe._ _

__

_______________________________ _

__

__It was another three weeks before he got back to his own place in London._ _

__His plants quivered to attention as he prowled by them and tossed his coat over the back of a chair. Idly, he glanced at his new answering machine, then frowned. The audio tape reel was wound at the opposite end of the machine, which was impossible._ _

__No one in England bothered with answer machines yet and the people who called him weren’t the kind to leave messages._ _

__Curious, he wound it back, then sat on his desk to listen._ _

__The minute the caller started to speak, Crowley’s head whipped around._ _

__“–don’t know what that beeping was about but as I was saying, I found a pub. They were showing it like you said they would be. It’s marvellous, isn’t it? All the way up there on their own. Can you imagine, something so small in the vastness of space?”_ _

__Crowley couldn’t keep the stupid grin off his face. He slid down off the desk onto his chair and leaned back and let Aziraphale’s giddiness wash over him._ _

__Yeah, maybe they were taking it slow, but they were still friends who had a lot to talk about and maybe, that was enough._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historic notes: Well, what can I say? It's the moon-landing? :)


	49. 1972 - London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With Pride

There were police lining the route, but then that wasn’t unexpected given the circumstances.

Aziraphale had to admit he was a little anxious as he glanced at the less-than-friendly spectators with their awful placards. It was very rare for him to be part of something so big and under such intense public scrutiny, but how could he be anywhere else on a day like this?

“Calm down,” a burly man said, leaning down to speak to him. “They can’t cause trouble this time. There are too many of us. They don’t know what we’d do if they kicked off.”

Aziraphale nodded with a flutter of a smile. “Oh yes, I know.” He glanced up at the sign held by the woman on his other side. It was cruder than he might have liked, but the meaning and message meant well. “You needn’t worry about that. We’ll all be quite safe.”

And if there was any trouble, he would make damned sure that it was quickly snuffed out.

This was not a day for brave, loving people to suffer any more than they already had.

They were halfway along Oxford Street when he heard a familiar voice call out. “Oi! Angel!”

Aziraphale’s heart leapt oddly in his chest. _Crowley_. It felt like they hadn’t seen each other in ever such a long time, not since the night he had handed over his best thermos and given the demon the means to end his life if he so wished. Could it be only five years? It seemed like so much longer.

The demon broke through the police cordon, shoving the officers out of the way. “Sod off! I’m trying to get to my friend!”

The big man by Aziraphale glanced down at him. “He with you?”

Aziraphale hoped he wasn’t smiling to foolishly. “I expect so.” He watched as Crowley wriggled his way through the other marchers and planted himself firmly at Aziraphale’s side.

“What in the nine hells are you doing here?” he demanded, waving a hand expansively. “Don’t you think your lot are going to be a bit upset about this?”

It was a thought that had occurred to Aziraphale more than once, but then when he had attended the gatherings the previous years, the kaleidoscope of emotions that surrounded them had burned him as hotly as holy fire. The _love_ , the pureness of the love, even amongst the anger, outrage, pain and grief, was what had called to him.

“I have to be here,” he said simply. “It’s where I’m meant to be today.”

The demon stared at him for long unblinking seconds as they walked. “Well,” he finally said. “You mind if I walk with you, then?”

Aziraphale blinked at him in surprise. “But won’t you get into trouble?”

Crowley shrugged, rucking up his flamboyantly patterned red-and-black shirt. “Don’t have much else on today. Told an idiot along the road to lob a brick. He hit a policeman and last time I saw him, he was getting shoved in the back of a van.”

“And was he aiming for the policeman?” Aziraphale murmured, watching the demon from the corner of his eye.

Crowley sniffed and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his flared trousers. “Couldn’t say. Wasn’t paying attention. Bad luck, I think.”

“A miracle,” Aziraphale said, trying to hide his smile, “that he didn’t hit anyone in the parade.”

Crowley’s expression twisted into that half-guilty, half-rueful smile of his, the face he always made when he knew he’d been caught out doing something that might almost be considered ‘good’. “Piss off, angel.”

Aziraphale ducked his head to hide his smile. Sometimes, Crowley could be so very kind, even if he tried to hide it in bluster and show.

“Anyway,” the demon added after a few seconds of consideration, “if they ask downstairs, I can just show them the newspaper clippings.” He nodded towards the signs along the roadside, the insults and abuse that were painted in black and white, unmissable to anyone on the road. “And pride’s technically one of our seven, so I’m covered coming and going. They won’t ask more questions than that.”

That was most likely true. Crowley could claim almost any event was his doing and they would believe him. Why not take credit for inciting the swarms of hateful idiots who were so violently opposed to the happiness of others?

Perhaps it was simply the emotion of the day, but Aziraphale moved a little closer to Crowley and briefly squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Crowley jolted as if he had grabbed an electric cable, his head snapping around to stare at Aziraphale. Behind his glasses, his eyes were wide as saucers.

Then he grinned that familiar grin. “Me too, angel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historic notes - This is the first official Pride Parade in London :) There were smaller events in the previous years following Stonewall, but this was the first time they really did a Parade.


	50. 1974 – Santiago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With a Coup (and An Unhappy Demon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references incidents of torture. If you want to know more about this period, be warned, it's grim stuff.

It was raining again, heavy drops pounding down, battering on the rooftops and in the street torrents rushed down the gutters.

Crowley shook himself as he ducked into one of the cantinas. It was – unsurprisingly – empty. No one wanted to be out in the streets just now. The man at the bar gave him a wary look but then his attention slid away. Crowley wasn’t in the mood for suspicion or rage or paranoia. Enough of that out in the city

Took him a couple of minutes to find a decent bottle behind the bar. He was a good three-quarters of the way through it when he spotted the battered old telephone.

He picked it up, but there was no dial tone. Not surprising, really. When you take over a country, s’not like teleconum– inflat– phone-liney things were top priority. Not when there were so many annoying people telling you you’re rubbish and you don’t like it and have to stop them saying it.  

Still, sometimes, it was useful to be a demon.

The phone purred as it dialled under his hand and he stared out at the street. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the rattle of gunfire again.

“Good evening. I’m afraid the shop–”

“Angel.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s voice brightened. “Crowley! Hello!”

“What’s up?”

The angel was silent for a moment, then – puzzled – said, “You called me, my dear.”

Crowley blinked, cross-eyed, at a frame on the wall. Newspaper clipping. Beside a picture of their new beloved leader. No wonder. Better to show solidarity. Otherwise, who knew where you’d end up and in how many bits. “Oh. Yeah. Right.” He hiccupped. “What’s up?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Are you drunk?”

“Mm.” Crowley took another slug from the bottle. “S’got a worm in it.”

Angel was quiet again, then asked, “Where are you, Crowley?”

Crowley made a face. “South place. One that sounds cold.” He knocked on the bar, trying to remember. “Chile! S’it! Chile!”

“Ah…”

“Woss ‘ahhh’?” he demanded grumpily. “Don’t need ‘ahhh’.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, “is because I see why you might be drunk.” He was very quiet again. “How bad is it there?”

Crowley drained the last of the bottle, then spat the worm at the picture of the General who was now the… the what? Dic – he sniggered – tator. Sounds ‘bout right. “Saw someone cutting fingers off a kid today,” he said conversationally. “Lil kid. Because his dad doesn’t like what’s happening.”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“An–” He waved a finger. “Y’know what’s worse? They… my lot, I mean, they think _I_ made ‘em do it. Good job, Crowley. Well done.” He threw the bottle over the side of the bar. It smashed on the floor. “Have a gold star for getting a bunch of kids–” He trailed off and took a shaky breath. “I _don’t_ like it.”

“I know.” Aziraphale’s voice was sad and soft. “You don’t need to stay there. Let the humans do what humans do.”

Crowley rocked the stool back and forward. “Cn’y’do us a miracle?” he asked. “Make it stop for a bit?”

“You know we can’t control them, Crowley. Free will. It’s– that’s what they do. ”

He nodded gloomily, the legs of the stool bashing back down on the floor.

“Leave them to get on with it.” Aziraphale said. “You don’t need to be there. No one will know if you are or not.”

Crowley nodded, leaning over the bar and groping for another bottle. “Bugger ‘em.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed and he could hear the smile in the angel’s voice. “Precisely.”

Crowley set the phone back down, giving it a careful pat. Somewhere else in the city, lines reconnected and severed cables reknitted themselves. Not much of a miracle, all things considered, but not much of a miracle was all he had left in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historic notes - Pinochet's forces staged a military coup in Chile in 1973. Thousands were killed and in the months that followed, dissenters, protesters and anyone that appeared to be a problem for the military government were arrested, tortured, maimed and worse. Their families were also targeted and frequently used against them. The death tolls are not known altogether, because some people simply 'disappeared', but the estimates are all incredibly high.


	51. 1975 - Hyde Park, London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One With Special Brownies

They were giving the picnic thing a try.

Technically, it wasn’t the first time they’d sat on the ground out of doors and had a meal together but there was a big difference between what they’d done and what they were doing now. Everything had changed because of that night in the car in 1967.

There was a new weight to the meetings. Not reverence… exactly, but Crowley had to admit that when the angel suggested a picnic in Hyde Park, his stomach had flipped.

Aziraphale had insisted on attending another one of those new parades that seemed to be turning into an annual thing. Crowley would’ve joined him if he hadn’t been pre-booked for a couple of quick temptations down in Zimbabwe.

They would meet, they’d agreed, at Hyde Park, where the parade ended and the festivities usually continued into the night.

There were banners everywhere when Crowley finally arrived at the park. The grass was thick with people, some drinking and laughing, some eating and some doing things that were making the watching policemen very twitchy.

It took Crowley less than a second to spot Aziraphale, but when he did, he frowned, worried.

The angel was lying on his back on a tartan picnic blanket, beside a small hamper. His coat was off – rare outside his shop – and carelessly rolled up and shoved under his head as a pillow. That was even rarer. He loved that bloody coat almost as much as Crowley loved the Bentley.

To top it off, he had his eyes closed, a beatific smile on his face, as he rubbed his hands in lazy circles on his ancient velvet waistcoat.

“Oi!” Crowley called as he strode up the small incline towards him. “Angel!”

Aziraphale’s eyes opened at once and that dreamy smile was turned his way. “Crowley!”

Crowley approached cautiously. “You all right, angel?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale sat up, then peered at his hands in surprise. “Oh. I have fingers!”

“Yeah…” Crowley squatted down next to him, searching his face. “You have done for quite a while now.”

The angel gave him a sleepy smile, then looked up at the sky and sighed happily. “Oh, it’s so lovely. They look like… like little fluffy sheep.”

“Hey!” Crowley caught his chin, bringing the angel’s attention back to him. “What are you on about?”

Aziraphale blinked at him, then took Crowley’s chin and pushed his head back to see the white clouds overhead. “On the blue thing.”

A waft of smoke from nearby made Crowley groan. “Angel, you didn’t let someone convince you to try a… special cigarette, did you?”

“I had cake,” Aziraphale informed him, beaming. “My friends gave me some. It was lovely. I kept some for you.” He looked down at a plate beside him. There were a few crumbs. “Oh.” His face creased. “Some bastard ate your cake.”

Crowley was torn between laughing and groaning. He was willing to bet that the cake was about as special as the cigarettes. “You’re the one who ate it, you daft bugger.” He nodded down at Aziraphale’s waistcoat and the faint smudges there. “You got it all down your front.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale looked stricken. “Oh dear.” He reached down to brush the mess off, then got distracted, fascinated by the texture of the cloth.

Crowley sank down to sit beside him. “You okay?”

“Hm?”

“Angel?”

Aziraphale blinked, looking at him, then smiled again. “Your hair is so red. I didn’t know snakes could have hair.” He reached up and Crowley caught his wrist. The angel pouted at him, wiggling his fingers as if he could make them stretch out and touch Crowley’s hair.

“You don’t wanna do that.”

For someone clearly high as a kite, the angel had surprisingly fast reflexes and a second hand. He also had the element of surprise, which was how Crowley found himself pinned on his back, half on, half off the picnic blanket, by the angel’s much more solid body as Aziraphale cooed and petted his hair.

Yeah, technically, Crowley could have overpowered him and put things back in their right places, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing Aziraphale looking so completely at relaxed. The worry lines between his brows had faded away and he wasn’t as tense and guarded as usual.

So he lay there and let the angel curl strands of Crowley’s hair around his fingers.

“Never asked,” he said, gazing at the angel’s face, so close to his he could see the lightning-like patterns in Aziraphale’s irises, his pupils so much wider and darker than usual. “Why this crowd?”

“Hm?”

“You. This lot. Why?”

Aziraphale gave him a deep, considering look. “My friends.” He hooked a finger under Crowley’s glasses and tossed them aside before Crowley could stop him. “I _like_ friends.”

“But why these ones?” Crowley persisted, groping around for his glasses. “You’ve got nothing in common with them.”

Aziraphale was even closer now, if that was possible, almost nose to nose. “Lots,” he said with almost sober ferocity. “Lots in common.” He lifted his other hand to pat Crowley’s cheek. “People tell them they’re wrong and they’re no such thing and they’re lovely and loving and kind and– and– and– and it’s…” His nose wrinkled. “Not good.”

“Ah.”

The angel sighed, his ribs rising and falling against Crowley’s. “Oscar.”

“Er?”

The angel either didn’t hear him or didn’t notice, tilting his head to peer at Crowley’s eyes. “You have little fires in your eyes, you know. Little ones. Glowy.”

“Uh huh.” Crowley’s hand found his glasses, but he couldn’t seem to find the will to put them back on, not when Aziraphale was so close and studying him so intently. “Who or what is Oscar?”

“Lovely!” Aziraphale’s smile vanished suddenly and he almost looked as if he was going to cry. “Gone now. Took all his words with him.” His fingers tensed in Crowley’s hair, almost pulling hard enough to hurt. “Don’t go away again, Crowley,” he said, his expression grave but his eyes wide and imploring. “I don’t like it.”

The demon stared back at him, then abandoned his glasses to squeeze Aziraphale’s arm. “You know I won’t.”

The smile returned, then – to Crowley’s ever growing bewilderment – Aziraphale sighed and wriggled down until he could rest his head on Crowley’s shoulder.

“You’re very sharp,” the angel complained, tugging at the long pointed collar of the suede coat Crowley had taken to wearing. “It was stabbing me in the head!”

“S’a bad coat,” Crowley said, dazedly staring down at the golden head pillowed on his chest. He hesitated, then cautiously smoothed the angel’s curls. “I’ll hold it back.”

“Mm. Good.” Aziraphale gave a contented sigh.

Although his weight was putting Crowley’s legs to sleep, Crowley just let him lie there, humming softly to himself, as Crowley gently stroked his hair.

 

_____________________

 

 

The shop bell had jingled a few minutes earlier, even though Aziraphale knew he had locked the door. It could only mean one visitor.

“Angel?” The demon’s voice rang through from the front of the shop. “Light was on. Thought you might be in!”

Aziraphale lifted the kettle off the hob, taking his time pouring the steaming water into his teapot. It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy to see Crowley again so soon. It was only that he had behaved so foolishly the last time they had met and with things still so fragile between them, it felt like he might have done more damage.

“Ah! There you are!”

The angel schooled his expression into a smile when he turned. “Crowley. I didn’t know if you’d be coming.”

“Eh.” The demon shrugged, one side of his mouth quirking up. “I had some time to kill.” He nodded to the pot. “Got enough for two in there?”

It was wretched how stilted and awkward things felt, as he carried the tea set through, babbling inanities about the weather, his duties, anything that came into his head. It wasn’t until they were both sitting, teacups in hands, that he blurted out, “I’m dreadfully sorry for my behaviour at the park. I had no idea what was in that cake.”

Crowley actually laughed and for the first time in what felt like an age, took off those ridiculous sunglasses. “Don’t worry about it, angel. You’ve seen me in a worse state than that.”

“But I–” He flushed thinking about it. “I _squashed_ you. Your poor legs must have been crushed.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows, amused. “I’m not that easy to break.” His grin turned into a smile. “I didn’t mind. Bit of a change to see you letting your hair down, truth be told. Never thought I’d see the day.”

The flush returned full force. “Well, I don’t intend to make a habit of it.”

Crowley glanced down at his tea, an odd expression flicking across his face. “Yeah, I know.” He raised his eyes again – and they really did look like they had banked fires glowing in the heart of them – to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “D’you remember what we talked about?”

Aziraphale nodded hesitantly. “Not… all of it, but some.” He ran his thumb along the edge of the saucer. “I know it’s foolish to care so much for them, but–”

“You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t,” Crowley interrupted. He set aside his saucer, cradling his cup in his palm. “And who was this Oscar anyway? You looked pretty upset about him?”

Aziraphale gazed across at him. It was no surprise why Oscar would have come to mind, when he had lain in a beautiful park, surrounded by the kind of men Oscar would have _adored_. “A young fellow I met in the 1870s,” he murmured. “Poet and playwright. You may have heard of him. He ended up terribly infamous.”

Crowley screwed up his face in confusion, then stared. “Oscar. As in Oscar _Wilde_?”

Aziraphale nodded, gazing down into the teacup, watching the loose errant loose fragments of leaf swirling. “He was a very clever young man. So creative.” He shook his head unhappily. “It was dreadful what they did to him. How they drove him out.”

Crowley was still staring. “So while I was… when we were… you were socialising with Oscar Wilde? The man accused of corrupting the youth of England?”

“Oh _really_ ,” Aziraphale said, looking up sharply. “Wouldn’t they have said the same of you, when all you did was point out an apple?”

The demon winced, but nodded, acknowledging a point well-made. “Anything else I should know about?” He asked the question lightly, but Aziraphale could feel the tension there, Crowley’s eternal fear of being supplanted. _I have plenty of other people to fraternise with_. “Wouldn’t want to prod any old wounds.”

“Nothing really,” he admitted. “Only some little entertainments.” He smiled suddenly in recollection. “I joined a gentlemens’ club! They taught me how to dance?”

Crowley snorted. “You? Everyone knows angels can’t dance!”

“I,” Aziraphale said, with more than a touch of pride, “can gavotte with the best of them.”

That made Crowley burst out laughing. “The gavotte? Oh Christ!”

“What’s so funny about that?” Aziraphale said indignantly.

The demon held up a finger. “One, it went out of date before the turn of the century from what I heard.” He raised another finger. “Two, isn’t that the one when you had to kiss everyone who was in the dance?”

Aziraphale shrugged. The gentlemen of the club insisted that they would dance a la Versailles, which meant flower bouquets had been traded out for kisses. “It was part of the dance.”

“Mm-hm.” There was a twitch around Crowley’s lips that was starting to make him suspicious. “And where was this club?”

“Well, I don’t see why it’s important, but it was on Portland pl–”

Crowley very deliberately and carefully put down his cup on his saucer, then covered the bottom of his face with his hand. He was shaking hard and short, hissing laughs slipped between his fingers. “Oh _God_.” He could barely stop laughing long enough to speak. “Cost you a hundred guineas, did it?”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to stare. “How did you–?”

“You were in the sodding Hundred Guineas club, angel!” Crowley slapped at his thigh. “Oh, this is amazing! Next thing you’ll tell me is that you were palling around with Somerset and that Prince!”

“Young Albert?”

Crowley looked as if all his Christmases had come at once. “Oh Hell… it all makes sense now.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Perhaps to you, but I don’t know what you find so amusing.”

Crowley held up a hand, trying to straighten his face, but his grin kept on escaping. “You remember back… just after? When we didn’t know who had been doing all the tempting?”

“Yes?”

Crowley pointed a quivering finger at him. He was biting on his lip now and shaking with laughter.

Aziraphale blinked at him. “I don’t see how I could have been responsible! I was only entertaining myself. I never tempted anyone!”

“Oh, but you did!” Crowley beamed at him. “Damn, you’re good, angel. No wonder they thought I’d been keeping busy, if you were up here, making people fall in lust with you left, right and centre!”

Colour flooded Aziraphale’s face and he felt altogether too hot and flustered. “I wasn’t tempting them! We only went out for dinner a few times! And danced! And they introduced me to their friends! They were all such lovely young men!”

The demon’s eyebrows rose higher still. “Mm-hm?”

“I didn’t _do_ anything with them!” Aziraphale said hotly.

“Ahhhhhh.” Crowley leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees. “And there’s the last piece of the puzzle. I kind of think that might have been the problem here, don’t you?”

The angel frowned at him. “I don’t follow.”

“Unrequited lust? Dangling yourself in front of a whole flock of them without… doing anything?”

A dozen wistful young faces flooded across his memory: young men who had taken his hand or kissed his lips or embraced him or danced with him. A dozen men who had ached with a strange longing, but who had one by one, drifted away, leaving him none the wiser as to what they had been seeking.

“Oh,” he said faintly. “Oh dear…”

Crowley was openly grinning at him now. “You made yourself on object of sexual desire. You _inspired_ lust.”

If Aziraphale had felt hot under the collar before, he felt as if he was positively on fire now. “Don’t say things like that!”

The demon made things worse by clapping his hands together and laughing all the more. “You did! Even I don’t even go there and you did it! Without even trying as well! I’m almost impress–”

“Oh, shut up!” Aziraphale clasped his hand over his mouth, as if to stifle the flare of outrage. It wasn’t that he was angry with Crowley. Lord, he didn’t want him thinking that, but the demon was right. It made all the sense in the world and now… “Oh Lord…”

Crowley sagged back on the couch, smiling. “Well…” he said, still chuckling. “I feel better. Mystery solved, eh?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks felt painfully hot against his fingers. He lowered his hand. “You won’t… tell anyone, will you?”

Crowley shook his head with a more genuine smile. “Nah. Makes it more fun, me being the only one to know what a naughty angel you really are.”

Aziraphale breathed out a shaking sigh of relief. “Thank you.” He tried to glare at the demon. “And I’m not naughty.”

“Ah well.” Crowley’s eyes danced. “We’ve still got time.”

“ _Crowley_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historic note: The Gavotte used to be known as "the kissing dance" because it involved all people in the dance having a good old kiss. Much later, to make it more appropriate, dancers were meant to exchange flowers instead of kisses. I suspect the 100 Guineas lads would much prefer the former option.


End file.
